The Phantom and the Count
by Silver Tallest
Summary: Erik is a monster and monsters are unlovable. What if Erik discovered there were literal monsters in the world? Would he finally find somewhere that he belonged? An exploration of an adolescent Erik, drawing from Susan Kay's Phantom and Gaston LeRoux's Phantom of the Opera.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: WELCOME! This is my attempt at a weekly updated fic. This an attempt at combing Phantom and Phantom of the Opera, along with exploring the idea that Erik may have met some strange bedfellows in his early travels around the world before settling down beneath the Palais Garnier. If this were to occur in his formative years still, it would shed some light on the actions that later take place in the events of Phantom of the Opera. I plan on this being T, but the rating *may* change. **

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The moon illuminated the night, casting shadows everywhere, even in the dark. As he stared up at the stars, Erik wished they could hypnotize him away from everything. They were dimmer tonight, perhaps because of the waxing moon. Everything was a deep shade of blue, and the shifting sway of the plodding horse made it akin to a voyage. Without propping himself up, Erik turned his head to spy on the driver of the caravan. The driver was lost in his own thoughts, unaware of the stowaway who rested on top of his wagon. Erik wished to keep it that way.

A silent sigh lifted from his scant lips. There were no clouds, too cold for crickets, a very still night that seemed to suffocate him. She died on a night just like this one and he left the only father he ever knew. In an instant, his carefully constructed world crumbled down and he had to flee.

Erik pressed himself against the roof of the caravan some more. He longed to clutch at the tightness of his chest and rip out the heart that betrayed him for caring. A year had already gone by, but the resolute look on Giovanni's face and how he destroyed his precious daughter with the sight of his ghastly visage-!

The tears threatened and Erik blinked and willed them away rapidly. How uncomfortable crying in a mask made him. The fluid that oozed from the gaping hole in his face, trickling down into his cleft mouth made it all the worse. He would need to remove it to prevent any rashes or irritation. He lifted the black face mask off of his chin and lips ever so slightly, tipping it towards his head. The chilled air was a welcome relief and instantly dried up his tears. He had to think and think carefully. Where was he headed?

His first instinct was to get as far away from Rome as possible, to leave everything in his past behind him. Traveling west had no promise for him. He had to move east.

' _The frozen wasteland of Siberia ought to do,'_ Erik pondered. A miserable world of white darkness seemed appropriate, though he would need to vary his wardrobe. At the very least, he ought to have more than one outfit.

He traveled lightly, the only thing he carried that was not strategically placed on his person was his violin case with the precious cargo inside. After staying with Giovanni, he regrew a tiny voice of a conscience, so he wanted to earn money the best way he knew how. Pickpocketing could only go so far, and his music soothed his warring soul.

Lost in the thought of how a white fur cape would look upon his lanky frame, the swaying of the wagon ceased. Erik froze in the stillness. He lay deathly still, not daring to breathe, hoping the driver hadn't noticed something amiss.

The creak of the wooden seat and the shifting of weight off of the caravan told Erik otherwise. Dirt and pebbles crunched under heavy footfalls, and the door at the back of the wooden caravan opened. Erik tried to follow the man in his mind's eye, imagining every movement and willing him not to look at the roof.

A minute had gone by and all that Erik could hear was silence. His mouth opened slightly to allow a delicate exhalation. His heartbeat thrummed, and he willed himself to calm down, lest his coursing blood make his ever-growing lanky limbs twitch and betray his position.

Finally, some grumbling from the driver, a quick shut of the door, and the whole wagon leaned to one side as he situated himself back up front. The horse snorted indignantly as its reigns were whipped and a clicking tongue told it to start walking again.

 _'What possibly could have been so necessary to-'_ The hissing of a match struck the quiet, sulfur and an acrid aroma perfumed the air. _'Ah. Tobacco,'_ Erik relaxed his shoulders, which he unknowingly tensed. _'Such a vulgar vice… and it ruins your voice.'_ He rolled his eyes with superiority, as if he would even indulge in such activities.

He inched the fingers of his left hand toward his violin case as the steady swaying resumed. His bony finger-tips brushed against the familiar wood and he seemed to sink against the roof. Ah… one of the few comforts he ever had. Fatigue pressed against his eyes. The rhythmic plodding of the horse, the back and forth sway of the wagon, and the chill night beckoned to rest. Erik let his eyes drift shut as his vision grew hazy, and as he rocked gently, he let his mind go black.

His eyes snapped open when he realized his folly. The wagon still rocked, the horse still plodded, and it was still night. He searched for the moon frantically with yellow eyes. It had felt like a few minutes had passed, but evidently that was not the case. The moon no longer hung where it did moments before. Erik craned his neck to look behind him, toward the driver, to find it much further away than he intended. He cursed at himself silently.

He knew better than to fall asleep in an unsafe place. Not that any place he found was particularly safe. His thoughts once again drifted to the cozy basement where he could lock himself up and burrow away into his arts. He jerked those painful thoughts away again and squinted toward the horizon.

A village was in sight, though no warm glows of hearths welcomed the travelers. The night was too late for that- everyone was secure in their own shelters. Peculiarly, the village seemed cast in shadow, darker than the surrounding blue haze of night. The moon's cool beams provided only enough light to cast an outline of the village. Erik gazed back up at the night sky and then back to the steadily approaching village. The little caravan should make it there by morning.

Passing through a clearing, Erik noticed a particularly gnarled oak tree. The ancient wood was too heavy to support itself and it was almost horizontal. Its yawning boughs reached out like spindly hands. The other side of the oak had roots uplifted by the sheer mass of the rest of the tree. The stubborn tree was still cemented downward. Carved crudely in its trunk were several languages etched from different hands, all with the same message: _Strangers turn back._

Erik rolled his eyes. In any other moment, he would have sighed with exasperation, but that would provide too much noise.

' _Imbecilic country folk. Another superstition to keep out foreigners, I assume.'_

He swept his arm underneath his neck as a pillow and used his left hand to compose a song against his leg, reading the stars as music notes. Maybe there would be a piano, or preferably, a church organ which he could haunt and listen to his new composition. Gazing at the stars, a small bat streaked across the sky. Its squeaks pierced the night air as clawed feet latched onto a moth.

"Prikaza!" Gasped the driver, crossing himself against the misfortune. Erik knew the Romani language well and frowned in his confusion.

' _What is bad luck?'_

A quick slap of leather on flesh cracked ahead of Erik, and the horse gave a whinny of distress. The wagon lurched forward, gaining more momentum and speed. The driver began to mumble to himself, his muttering smattered with curses in between. He and the horse gave off an air of unease.

Erik settled back to trying to compose the stars, trying to ignore the foreboding pit in his gut. The driver banged his fist against his seat repeatedly. The knocking swayed the entire vehicle. Erik felt himself slip to the side of the roof and quickly braced himself against it. Another pungent aroma reached his nostrils, a result of the banging from up front.

' _Garlic?'_

The stinking rose perfumed the air around Erik and the rocking made him begin to feel ill. He clutched at his face, with his eyes shut, wondering when this torture would end.

' _I could just take his wagon…'_ Erik pondered casually, _'frighten this man, take his caravan, ride off to the next town at my own pace_.' Erik had stolen many things in his short life without a second thought. ' _To steal this would be easy. No one's around,'_ he reasoned. A flash of his time in Italy gripped his heart. ' _What would_ he _think? If he knew I stole another man's home?'_

The word "Sir" played on his lips as he stared back at the stars. The pain was too great. He couldn't do it. He'd have to find a new little hovel or hole to burrow himself in when they came to the village.

It would have to wait until dawn.


	2. Chapter 2

Dawn cast its hazy, pastel glow all around the village. The driver of the caravan groaned from exhaustion as he and the stowaway approached. Erik cautiously raised himself up to peer down at the man. He was bundled up in blankets to fight off the chill of the night. Erik had not bothered with the cold. He tried to study the man, to gain any sort of knowledge on him, now that there was more light. A quick lurch forward ended that reverie, and Erik gripped tighter onto the wooden roof. The plodding of the horse clopped louder and the sway of the wagon increased. '

' _Cobblestones_ ,' Erik surmised. The abrupt change from dirt to stone provided the sound he needed to make his departure since the friendly darkness was quickly leaving him. Erik timed the creaking and swaying of his wooden passage, coiled like a cat, with violin in tow. A pothole in the road signaled to him and as the axels groaned and the weight shifted, he leapt off with practiced ease.

Careful to remain in the shadow of the caravan, Erik dusted himself off. Bothersome dew had accumulated on his clothes making everything slightly damp and musty. ' _The pleasant aroma when water hits wool.'_ The light, morning fog that lingered did not help matters in the least.

Erik straightened himself up, stretching his tight muscles ever so slightly without warranting any attention. He smoothed his rumpled coat, briskly running his hands over hidden pockets that contained many secrets. Feeling nothing amiss and looking like an average traveler, albeit with a mask, he felt more confident to roam the streets of the sleepy village.

Sunny beams began to illuminate the town, yet it still was cast in the shadow of the mountain. Erik moved silently through, peering at all the wooden houses and thatched rooftops. A quaint enough village, to be sure. However, as Erik strolled through, his gaze fixed upon a peculiarity; all the windows and doors were locked so securely, there was nary a crack to be seen. No crevice for a happy breeze to blow through. He didn't have to test any to be certain they were bolted shut.

The architect in him was astounded at the seamless panes that allowed no passage to the outside. No cats wandered around, no roosters crowing, everything steeped in silence.

Erik became more cautious in his steps, walking toward the town pavilion or square that certainly had to be there. Nearly all villages he encountered had them.

' _Why are all these houses boarded up so tightly?_ ' he pondered silently to himself, passing yet another window, this time with bars. His throat constricted, thinking of the little window he had in his attic room. Although terribly familiar, these differed from his childhood obstacle; these kept something _out_.

Whatever the villagers wanted out, needed to _stay_ out of their homes, that fact was certain.

The mists began to lift as Erik reached a broad tiled plaza. The arena was simple; an open area for the community to gather, probably to shame some poor unfortunate soul, ostracized out of the village by the ever present view of the church. Erik stood before the building, scrutinizing it with all of his architectural prowess. What little of his upper lip he had lifted into a scowl behind his mask.

' _Unimpressive. This is how they worship?'_

The church was cobbled together with white stones, a simple steeple loomed overhead, holding its bell. Red tiles marked the roof, and overall quite unassuming, though it was rather large. Erik stared at the large cross that marked the religion of the building, as if passively challenging it. Churches held no sanctuary for him, but at least he could appreciate the outward beauty of them in Europe. This humble building most assuredly held no promise for him.

He inspected the pavilion, trying to determine where he should place himself. It should be somewhere noticeable but not completely conspicuous to garner unwanted attention.

Finally, the sound of latches unlocking and windows opening echoed through the village. A rooster crowed out its morning call, chasing away the last of the foggy morning. A gentle hum of wakefulness began to emerge.

Erik situated himself in a corner, preferring his back never be exposed. He bowed his gangly limbs and crouched down, setting his violin case gently in front of him. He began rummaging around in its contents, the case carrying surprisingly more than a solitary violin. His collection of various masks was neatly stored away, snug in his case. Some were ostentatious, like the Venetian mask that he had procured when he was several years younger, only just a lad, but its whimsy spoke volumes to him. The black mask he was currently wearing was decidedly much too ominous for such a little town. Perhaps the leather one would be less intimidating and more enticing.

With a flash of a sleight of hand, his black full face mask was replaced with a white leather mask that exposed his lips, but never fully revealing his cleft upper lip. It was more enthralling to people to view his mouth when he did his ventriloquy. Having a full mask on casted doubt and demands for removal.

That was always something he wished to avoid.

His fingers traced along the edges of the mask. His face felt mildly sore and irritated, and to his horror, small welts trailed along where the mask met his skin. Erik's stomach dropped. ' _Is my deformity worsening? Do I look even more horrible? How could that even be_ possible _?'_

His vision blurred as his breaths came sharp and quick. The world was hyperfocused, but his peripheral was swimming. He was getting uglier, not more handsome. He must be. He would just grow and grow until he undoubtedly looked like a wretched gargoyle that feasted on the-

A nearby window abruptly opened and wafted the homely aroma of baking bread. A young woman placed some rolls by the window to cool and to alert the town of their delicious presence. She then walked away, leaving the steaming buns abandoned.

Erik's stomach grumbled.

He grimaced, ignoring his panic and rooting himself back down to reality. Hunger was a pain he seldom felt and more than often ignored. He noted he required nourishment more often now; his body demanded it. With a sigh of resolve, he adjusted his mask accordingly and eyed at the steaming brown rolls with contempt and desire. It seemed he would have to cave into his carnal desires.

Without even realising he was moving, Erik found himself immediately in front of the buns. Their siren spell of sweet aroma was too much and he nimbly plucked one off of the tray. He shoved the steamy, crusty morsal into his mouth and chewed with abandon. The roof of his mouth burned, as did his tongue, but sustenance was far and in between. The opportunity had to be seized. Savoring it was not an option, but oh! It was so delicious. Inside was fluffy and yeasty, the crust quite toothsome, and within seconds, he finished the ill-gotten good.

Erik wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist, disposing of any incriminating evidence of his crime. He glanced down at the glaring absence of the roll he pilfered, something that would go amiss from the eyes of the baker's daughter or whomever she was. The rolls had been carefully aligned in rolls and it was quite noticeable that one had gone astray.

 _'A rock might be a sufficient substitute….'_ Erik mused to himself with a sly grin, envisioning some poor soul purchasing the imposter bread and taking a hearty bite, only to crack their teeth. _'-but there would be no payoff. How could I ensure to watch it? What was the point of a trick if you could not observe the aftermath and chaos it created?'_

His mind wandered to envisioning himself climbing up on the rooftops, and shimming himself over to spy on the townspeople like a grim gargoyle. His thoughts were interrupted by the clattering of some pots from inside the bakery.

A cry of apology was uttered in a language unfamiliar to Erik. Its lilting astonishment proved to Erik it could only be an utterance of "Sorry-!" and the high pitched yelp had to be that of a woman. He leapt away from the window and against the wall of the building, pressing himself against it in hopes of disappearing. Some more crashing reverberated from inside with more cries of frustrated anguish, this time in Romanian, a tongue he was more familiar with.

"Curse it all!"

His curiosity piqued, Erik removed himself from his hiding spot to see a woman around his age fumbling around with flour in her face. Her eyes squeezed shut to try and keep the dust from agitating them. She tried to wipe it away with the apron at her waist, but that, too, was drenched in the white dust and only made the situation worse.

Erik stared dumbfounded at the tomfoolery unfolding before him. Her yellow hair was pulled back in a braid, with several of its messy curls freeing themselves from the hastily woven companions. Everything about her spoke plainness but she was a young woman, and Erik was frozen to the spot. Her hands clawed in front of her, trying to find her bearings blindly. She wasn't impeded by anything and made hasty steps toward the open window. Her heeled boots kicked a wooden stool that was peeking out from underneath a table. The stool ricocheted between her feet, cause her to stumble and lunge at the tray of hot rolls.

Reacting without thinking, Erik reach through the paneless window and grabbed her wrist, holding her fast with his one hand to prevent her from burning herself. The other deftly maneuvered a handkerchief from his pocket and held it out to her groping hand.

"Oh!" She exclaimed, holding tightly to the handkerchief and righting herself. Erik immediately released her and took a step back.

' _NEVER touch a girl! What was I doing I could have -'_

"Who's there?"

Her voice interrupted his inner tirade as she wiped the flour from her eyes. "Thank you so much for your handkerchief. I accidentally dropped the bag of flour on my work-station and then I couldn't see and it's so crowded in here so it was a good thing you helped me." Her words spilled from her mouth with no breath to cease them.

Erik wondered if all girls spoke like this in the region. His Romanian was still remedial, and her rapid-pace string of words left him feeling slightly befuddled. Or perhaps it was the way she was so open.

Her mouth opened to say something more, but it was his staring that caught her attention when she could safely open her eyes. Their eyes locked and she gasped.

Erik flinched and his limbs retracted, poised to flee once he heard the scream that was inevitable.

"OW!" She proclaimed, waving her hands in front of her face and directing her gaze at the ceiling. "The flour!" Red seeped into the whites of her eyes and she waved her hands frantically toward her face, as if that would quench the burning. She clenched her eyes shut, squeezing out the tears.

Erik's tight posture relaxed slightly. She wasn't gasping and screaming over him.

She furiously dabbed at her eyes again, her tears finally washing the powder away.

"I apologize," she told him with her eyes still closed.

"It is fine," Erik finally spoke, his words carefully chosen as he ran through his mind how the intonations were meant to be spoken.

Her eyes fluttered open, squinting slightly, and then focusing on him. "So you do speak!" She finally assessed him, her crimson rimmed hazel eyes looking him up and down. "... You're new." It wasn't a question.

He gave a curt nod.

She straightened herself up and dusted off the excess flour from her simple dress and apron. "Well, new to the town or not, I thank you for your assistance." She plucked a roll from the tray, careful not to touch the hot metal, and held it out to him. "You must be hungry," her eyes darted to his slight waist, "please eat. For my gratitude." 

Guilt held Erik like a vice and he quickly shook his head, holding up his hand. "No," he said, backing away. "No," he repeated to himself and turned abruptly away from her.

The girl frowned, her hand still stretched out with her offering.

"ERZSEBET!"

The call made her jump. "Comiiiiing!" She responded with a light melody. She gave one small glance back at the gangly boy and left the roll on the windowsill. Erzsebet grabbed the tray with her apron, and walked away from the window.

Erik hurried himself away from her with long strides, his hands balled up in fists and his ears a bright crimson. He had not expected to be caught off guard like that.

' _Fool, fool, fool!_ ' He chided himself. He would need to restrain his hunger pains more. He darted over to his abandoned violin case and knew the best way to sort out his feelings. He snatched up his violin, slid it under his chin and began to play.

The melody that he coaxed from the strings was soft and light. Erik focused his efforts in trying to soothe his embarrassment and remain calm by providing a calming and lovely song. The lilting notes carried pleasantly throughout the town. As more people began to emerge to go about their day, the more Erik played. Windows opened, chamber pots emptied, people began their morning routines, seemingly oblivious to the mellifluous sounds coming from the plaza.

A man huddled in a large overcoat and a large beard walked briskly by without even a pause to the musician. Erik watched him pass with yellow eyes. Recognition came to him and it was the man from whom he stole a ride. The man strode into an adjacent building.

' _A bar,_ ' Erik thought with an eye roll as his bowstring raised with his song, _'at this hour? Has he no shame for his vices?'_

But he was not the only person to pass by without looking at Erik.

A knot began to develop in his stomach as Erik continued his string of lovely melodies, desperate to entice people to stop by and hand him some currency. His frustration began to build. His movements became a little more frantic and the tempo increased from what was a peaceful morning awakening morphed into a dance. More people emerged, but continued on their day as if nothing were amiss or new.

' _Perhaps they're all deaf?_ ' Erik's confusion tried to find reason within any explanation for their avoidance. He panted from his frantic exertions. He had been playing all morning, and yet no one looked at him. Certainly if they had at least glanced his way and were afraid on his masked visage, he could explain that. To be this level of ignored, particularly when he was trying to garner attention? It was unsettling.

Finally, a young boy pulled on his mother's hand as she was escorting him to do her errands. "Mama, listen!" The youngster exclaimed, pointing his free hand toward Erik and trying his best to stop her strides.

She tugged sharply on his hand and continued her pace, "pay no attention to him and he'll leave." She scolded her son sharply, never breaking her stride.

Erik lowered his violin in astonishment and watched them walk off past the plaza, the young boy trying his best to avoid looking at Erik but his curiosity kept making him look back at him.

Erik's mouth parted in a silent question. ' _So they_ can _hear me… they choose not to..?'_

He continued to watch the little boy reluctantly leave with his mother and his fingers began to move on their own accord. An upbeat, silly song flowed from his violin, the rhythm enticing anyone to bounce along. The bustling of the villagers began to slow. People moved toward the square, pretending to be interested in something else, but their daily motions were clearly distracted.

It was working.

Erik continued this enthusiastic melody, observing people start to bob their heads along. The rhythm began to catch on and soon, people were approaching him. The showman in him knew he had to keep their attention, so Erik began to move along with his own music. A kind of dance emerged from his spindly legs. The mother and the little boy appeared in the crowd, his little laugh of delight encouraged Erik more. He gave more flourishes in his arm movements as the bow flew back and forth from the strings. Erik scanned the line of people with his golden eyes, trying to judge their own judgement of him. Small smiles on care-worn faces twitched on their faces. A flaxen haired figure emerged, covered in white dust. Erik swallowed his guilt, never faltering on his melody, and averted his gaze from her smiling face. Then an odd sound met his ears: the rhythmic slapping of flesh on flesh. The baker girl, ' _no, Erzsebet,_ ' he thought, was clapping along.

The crowd began to join her. Erik continued his jig. A man offered his hand to a woman and they joined the dance. People began to sway and laugh at the interruption of their usual routine. Smiles that were foreign on solemn faces brightened everyone's face. Jubilation rose as if it were a festival.

It was at that moment, in the height of enthusiasm, that Erik began to sing.

The note carried from his throat to the ears of everyone, as if he was singing directly to each individual. The clarity of his voice was sharp and sweet, and it stunned everyone to silence. Erik momentarily paused his violin playing as he unleashed his voice to the crowd. He nestled the instrument back under his chin and accompanied himself as he sang a love song full of pining and hope. A few people began to sway to the tune, which was mournful yet full of promise of a love still foreign. The song was in Italian, allowing Erik to perform directly from the anguish of leaving his former home.

A few people began to shuffle upon their person, searching for spare coins at the ready to give to him when he finished.

The high note was coming and Erik knew at that moment, they would be eating out of his hand. A long sweep of his bow and Erik's voice rose to meet the note, his eyes closing serenely- only for his voice to crack.

He clamped his mouth shut in horror. His ears turned a brilliant shade of red, the only indication that the masked boy was blushing. His violin quickly compensated for the lack of music flowing from his mouth, and he quietly cleared his throat. His eyes scanned his audience, who did not seem to notice the blunder, but clearly the spell he had casted was already lifting; people began to move away.

Erik inhaled deeply to try it once more. His voice rose higher and higher, evoking the music of heaven, until it took a sharp downturn once again. The sour note hung sharply in the air. Cold horror spread throughout his body, making him numb to everything. He was losing control of his voice. The one thing he considered beautiful about himself was gone. His voice was no longer his. His vision blurred as he tried not to focus on anything but playing the violin. The strength and vigor to dance had left him, and all he wanted to do was curl up in a little shell and never see the light of day again.

The song ended, and Erik gave a curt bow to the audience, as they clapped sparingly. A few coins were tossed his way and the audience dwindled as they had to move about their day. Erik stooped down to collect the gold and silver, never glancing up at the people who walked by or who remained. His ears still glowed a deep crimson.

A pair of boots obstructed his view as he gathered the money into his violin case.

"I liked the way you sing," Erzsebet told him.

Erik ignored her. His singing was abysmal and he knew it. He busied himself with counting his money.

She stood before him still. "Do you sing in Church? You sounded like you have a lot of experience."

He placed his violin back into its case. He was averting his gaze, pretending to look for another location to move to.

"Perhaps I will see you in Church on Sunday?"

He clicked his violin case shut.

"No. You won't." His gruff voice had an edge of finality to it.

Silence grew between them as he stood up to his full height. She stood a couple of inches shorter than him, but it was easy for Erik to look her in the eyes. Erzsebet hesitated. Erik bided his time to see if she would say anything against his opposition to singing in Church.

She didn't get the chance.

" _Erzsebet!_ " A voice hissed and grabbed her arm. "I need you back in the bakery, not fraternizing outside!"

"Ima!" She snapped back, recoiling her arm away and jutting her chin out defiantly, "I just stepped out! I was just trying to help- uh-"

The portly woman who had approached them looked at Erik with a scrutinizing gaze. Her dark hair was pulled up in a bun, wrapped with a handkerchief. Her frock was protected with a white apron which also had a dusting of flour. "We've no time for artists here," she told him in a scathing tone. "Come along _now_ ," she turned her attention back to Erzsebet. Her dark eyes blazed at Erzsebet as if they were having a conversation they've had a dozen times before.  
Erzsebet met her heated gaze, warring silently with the woman called Ima.

Erik began to carefully move backward away from the two women.

Erzsebet's brow knitted together as her lips fell to a frown. Her eyes grew larger. Ima threw up her arms.

"Listen child," she told Erzsebet, "you know what happens when someone comes to this village. You cannot be around this… this…!" She gesticulated towards Erik, trying to find the word for him. Erik solemnly braced himself for the word _monster-_ "-boy!" Erik flinched, surprised at the humanizing way she spoke about him as Ima turned to him. "You need to leave _now_. You will find nothing for you here, do you hear? Whatever you're looking for, it is _not_ in this village.." She waved her arms to shoo him away, the thick flesh softly jiggling.

"I seek nothing," muttered Erik, turning his back on the two women. Erzsebet slumped her shoulders dramatically.

"Ima," she murmured as Erik moved to a more protected corner of the plaza, shielded by the afternoon sun, "I don't think he means us any harm."

"They made a deal with us and we must obey that deal," Ima scolded her. Erik began to play again, a neutral tune to add pleasant music in the background of everyone's day.

Another sigh rushed from Erzsebet's lungs and she stared at Erik. She strode over to him, digging her hand into a hidden pouch within a slit of her skirts. She placed a roll on top of his violin case. He eyed her wordlessly, his playing never faltering.

"For earlier. You forgot it," her stiff words were brushed off by him and he looked away from her. 

She walked back to Ima and the bakery when she called over her shoulder, "I'm keeping your handkerchief!" You can pick it up later!"

His head tilted slightly, his bow swimming in front of him, as Erik tried to decipher whether she was being sardonic or sincere. Even his song seem to ask the question with a tilting note, but it slipped back into something more unnoticeable.

"YOU THERE!" A thunderous voice barked at Erik, making him jump and miss notes on his violin. The screech of a missed thread burned his ears and he issued a small apology in his head to his instrument. He didn't care to give attention to the man who was demanding it.

A priest barged up to Erik shoving an accusatory finger at him.

"BEGONE!" He shouted.

Erik stared back uninterestedly at the man.

"I don't think I will," he replied coolly, his apathy returning in full strength as he stared at the village priest. This man held no power over him.

Or so Erik thought.

"We made a deal with your _kind_. You are not to set foot in this village!" Spittle flung from the forceful mouth, making Erik curl his lip in disgust.

"...kind?"

All the exposure to the rapid Romanian was helping Erik's accessibility to the language, but he was still unsure about a few linguistic differences.

" _Strigoi_!" The priest spat out, touching his forehead quickly and making the sign of the cross on his body in one quick gesture.

Erik's yellow eyes darted around as he searched for the word. He shook his head, trying to convey incomprehension, lifting his occupied hands and trying to back away.

"Yes! You have come to prey on this village and you will find nothing here!"

"I'm a musician," Erik hissed back, getting angrier at the priest's outrage and violation of his personal space.

"Lies! All a ploy to seduce the weak and allow you to feast on us! A mask visage does not fool me nor the Almighty!" His projected voice echoed around the plaza, commanding the attention of anyone who was nearby. A sermon in the making and a lesson to all. He thrust a wooden cross at Erik's face and yelled once more, "BEGONE!"

"Get that AWAY from me!" Erik shouted back in retaliation knocking the cross away from his mask. Erik hadn't noticed that he had dropped his violin and bow. His vision was swimming to red and his empty fists clenched, trying to reel in his anger. It was explosive. A flood of memories of people screaming at him: his mother, his childhood priest, on lookers from when he was a side-show freak, all swirled around at once in his memory and he couldn't breathe. He just wanted to make them _hurt_.

"You see?" The priest told no one in particular, although a crowd had gathered once more. He turned towards them to lecture."The Count is not to be trusted! He sends more _strigoi_ here as messengers to his evil ways. Look how this one shields his face from the light! Who could turn away from the light of God but an unholy sinner employed by the Devil himself!" He turned back to Erik, filled with fire himself, "-begone!" He continued to shout, thrusting the cross at Erik's face repeatedly. "Begone! BE-"

Ima had grabbed the priest's arm and interjected herself between the boy and the man. Erik was poised like a feline, all tension and fury, ready to lash out at the man screaming at him. Eyes and nostrils flared at Ima as she glowered at the priest.

"You shame yourself, Father Popescu," her face stared in a challenging scowl.

"Out of my way, Jewess," he hissed, trying to rid his hand free of her grasp. She only held on tighter, her stance barely moving in her resistance. Her free arm she held out behind her, as if she were tending to a frightened animal, to stay calm and still.

"You will not treat my nephew so shamefully," she told Father Popescu. "He is visiting me from out of town." The tension in the air slowed to a simmer from the boil. The few people who had gathered dispersed once again. This was nothing new. The priest rubbed his wrist instinctively, eyeing Erik suspiciously. "...nephew," he stated skeptically, eyeing the panting boy.

"Yes, nephew! I just said that!" She threw up her hands in exasperation. "Can't you see the obvious family resemblance?"

He glanced from Erik and back to her as they began to bicker. The few seconds reprieve was what Erik needed to gain his cognition back. His senses came back to him with several deep breaths and he stooped to pick up his precious violin. He needed to make an expedient escape.

"-your _bubbe_ 's second cousin's nephew or not," Father Popescu sneered, "he cannot go around wearing a mask like that. What has he to hide?"

"None of your concern!" She thrust her own pointed finger at the priest. "Come along -!" Ima turned to the boy only to find a brick wall.

He had vanished.


	3. Chapter 3

Erik had nimbly evacuated the warring duo by simply climbing up. No one was ever clever enough to look up when someone left. He crawled like a spider, low to the tiles, onto the roof.

He had never felt a literal blind rage like that.

His head poked over the edge of the roof to spy on the argument he fled. He couldn't make out the words, only the mutterings of human voices. Ima looked bewildered as did Father Popescu. He then pointed another accusatory finger and she at him as they argued more aggressively.

The grim spectator pulled his head back and slumped against a brick chimney on the roof he currently occupied. He sighed and attempted to figure out his next move. His cheeks ached against his mask, and he absentmindedly rubbed it with the heel of his hand over his mask.

' _The best move right now,'_ he thought to himself, _'would be to stay completely out of sight.'_ He closed his eyes, wishing he could be invisible to all, with his hand on his chest. His heart was still racing, and he breaths came in quick succession. Erik inhaled deeply, willing his heart to slow and relax. He still felt the high of adrenaline coursing through him, and it was making him restless. He wanted to make some mischief. Logic dictated that was exactly the wrong thing to do in this situation, _'but when are monsters ever logical?'_

A flash of a memory danced before his eyes. A song his mother drilled into him as far back as Erik could remember: _'Monsters are scary. Monsters are unloveable. Erik is a monster. Monsters are scary, monsters are unloveable, Erik is a monster.'_ It was something he could recite as easily as his alphabet when he was a child.

He shook his head, as if to physically shake the memories out of his head. The gesture shook him back to the roof, where he was on top of the Church directly. A belltower watched over the town with delightful seclusion and shade on the other side of the sloped roof.

' _That would be the perfect spot to view the inner workings of this village,'_ Erik mused. Mischief was easier to think about than his own horrific past. He would focus his attention on harmless pranks to scold the villagers for resisting the music that he played.

First thing's first, to get to the rooftop of the Church.

Erik mused to himself that he could climb down from his perch, sneak inside, climb the staircase, maneuver between the giant bell, and roost on top, but that was too risky in his mind. Too many chances to interact with unwanted villagers.

' _Not everyone is unwanted_ ,' a small voice teased him as he quickly thought of Erzsebet.

The better option, to Erik's summation, was to move from the lower part of the red tiled roof and nimbly climb the steep incline to the opposite end. He could watch over everything in his own cozy nest. He had scaled much more hazardous roofs and trees before, this particular task should be simple.

 _'But have they finished with their argument?'_ It would be a fool's folly to attempt such a feat in clear view of the very people Erik wished to avoid. He gripped tightly to the tiles and stretched out his neck to peer down to the courtyard. The rotund Ima was storming off, her hands thrown back into the air, as the solemn Father Popescu walked away from her, his fists clenched by his side, revealing his anger.

Erik continued to watch Ima walk away. The woman he had never met before intrigued him, and Erik failed to understand why.

' _Why did she intervene?'_ Any shred of kindness was past his realm of comprehension, so he stared at her, bewildered as he realized her actions. It was then that he felt the tiles from his feet give away.

The rust half-domes clinked together as Erik began to slide down. He scrambled to grab onto more, his gangly legs like a freshly-born fawn, but as he tried to flee, he continued to slip downwards. A string of profanities in various languages reverberated in his head as he leapt to a window, giving him some reprieve from the falling tiles.

Erik released a sigh of relief as he leaned against the stable window, only to cringe when he heard a rogue tile shatter on the ground below.

' _Fantastic_ ,' he thought with closed eyes, berating his idiocy. Through his closed eyes, he felt the world darken. He looked up to see the sun being covered by a friendly storm cloud. Erik was grateful for the shroud of darkness; staying atop a roof just amplified the blazing sun, even if the bite of winter was upon them. He paused momentarily, ears alert to any miffed yell at the broken ceramic.

Silence.

Boosted with confidence that his exploits were going to be unnoticed, Erik continued to scramble up the roof to the bell tower. He slumped against the the post, heaving a great sigh as he gazed across the horizon.

A plump, grey rat skittered near Erik. His arm was resting on his knee as he tried to pass time on the roof, and his relaxed posture made the rat cautiously move toward the boy to investigate. One little step at a time, its tiny nose lifted high in the air.

Erik made soft clicking sounds with his tongue to attract the rodent. "Come here," he cooed to the creature, the plot of mischief already brewing. With tentative steps, the rat approached Erik, its snoot eagerly twitching and searching for any morself of food. "That's right… Erik won't hurt you," his voice was soft and welcoming as one hand moved behind the rat and the other grasped it like a clamp around its middle, "but that's not to say someone else might."

The rat squeaked indignantly, squirming and flailing its little body to move out from Erik's hold on it. He petted its little head and then dropped the rat down the bell tower. It landed safely on a plank of wood, no harm down to the creature, but froze on the wood from the shock of the fall. Erik dusted off his hand and peered down at it with a grin on his ghostly face. The rat although unharmed, was very miffed at the turn of events. With a lash of its hairless tail, it skittered away into the Church and away from the boy who had frightened it.

Erik relaxed against the tower, pleased with himself for the impending mayhem he had sewn. He would not necessarily hear a scream immediately, but a rat nesting in the belfry? Priceless. Father Popescu would be furious and Erik would never be considered a suspect.

' _Afterall,'_ Erik reasoned, _'rats wander into churches all the time without anyone's assistance.'_

The afternoon slipped away between his hands as he watched the villagers. He made up stories about them, as if they were his little dolls.

"Oh no, I couldn't possibly," he spoke in an outlandish voice, as a woman far below brushed off the local haberdasher, "my husband was murdered by a top hat."

Erik changed his voice to match the man, "Nonsense!" He declared, "Twas I who murdered your husband," as the characters echoed indifference with their body language rather than the drama he was making unfurl, Erik was more amused. "Good, he was bor-ING-" Erik clamped his claw like hands on his throat, his eyes wide again.

It happened again. His voice cracked.

This time, he was more fortunate that no one heard his dramas above them, but the trickle of fear still seeped into him. He needed to figure out how to stop that from happening. But how?

The shadow of the nearby castle poured over the town as the sun dipped lower in the sky. There was an edge to everyone's step as they skittered back to their houses, only a few stragglers remained with last minute browsing.

The bell began to move ever-so slightly, and then gained momentum. Erik itched to tug on the ropes.

"Perhaps I should consider a trade in bell ringing," he told the brass domed creation. "It would be more than suitable, I would presume-" he reasoned with the bell, pacing around it- "afterall, I am a half-formed Frenchman. However," he shrugged and moved away from the bell as if it, too, were participating in the conversation, "I shan't place such obvious expectations on myself. What do you think?"

As if it were responding to his question, the bell began to ring its deep chime. Erik clamped his hands over his ears. The close proximity to the bell while it did its work left a lot to be desired. It swayed its dance 5 times. With every chime, another door or window slammed shut throughout the village. The glow within the hearths still emanated, but at the fifth chime, the village was closed off once again.

Erik swept up his violin case into his arms and surveyed the desolate area. The quiet unnerved him. A sharp, biting wind blustered through, and it almost knocked Erik off his feet.

"Time to go somewhere else.." he muttered, leaping nimbly from his perch. With careful and practiced acrobatics, Erik swung himself down the rooftop, taking heed to those tiles he was reckless with before. He was a dark silhouette against the rapidly darkening sky. He gripped onto the final ledge, letting his long legs clutch at his case, and lowered himself back down. He landed with a soft _thud_ , with knees carefully bent to cushion the jolt. He straightened back up, unafraid of any watchful eyes upon him now. The town was carefully deserted once again.

He strolled through, carefully listening for any signs of activity. Nothing was available. The town didn't even have a inn to take in visitors.

"That sign was not mincing words," he muttered.

Gentle white specks began falling all around him. Erik grimaced. His situation became even worse: it was snowing. He hugged his coat closer to him. Coldness frequently did not perturb him, but even he had limits which he could endure.

He wandered to the outskirts of the village, finding himself yet again in front of the bakery. The smell of baked goods was too enticing even for Erik to ignore. The shop was closed, but the allure remained.

Erik crept around to the back of the building, finding that it did contain living quarters, not just the storefront. He could hear the female voices inside, talking amongst themselves, and he stood in front of the wooden shutters to try and hear their conversation. Ima had stopped the Father from _whatever_ it washe was trying to do, so did that truly mean her actions were benevolent and she wanted to allow Erik to stay with her?

Even if she did not outright allow it, that never stopped Erik from sleeping in a forgotten attic or lost basement. Even barns were not foreign to him.

"You should _not_ have done that, Ima," came Erzsebet's voice, as if this very conversation had been repeated all afternoon. An irritated sigh was the response.

"They'll cast you out anyway for being different! You know they speak about you and-" a pause and then much softer, "... I don't want anything to happen to you." Erik pressed his ear against the wood, trying to catch more information.

"We've been through this, child, I'm too old and stubborn in my ways. This old town has been doing this for many years. This is nothing new." Footsteps approached the window and suddenly it opened. Erik dropped to the ground as if all the bones in his body were removed to prevent him from being seen. Luckily, Ima's head had been turned away so she hadn't seen the lanky boy at the window.

"Listen, _bubala_ , it's _Shabbat_ so you're going to have to finish all the preparations for tomorrow."

Two candles were placed on the window sill while Erik remained motionless. Another more elaborate candelabra holding nine placements. Ima began wedging long candles into the holders. Erik watched her elongated shadow on the quickly-freezing ground.

"Imaaaaa," came the exasperated response, "I've been doing this for years for you. I know what I need to do-" a wave of the older woman's hand silenced her along with her interruption, "humor this old woman."

"Yes, Ima," something was set down on a table. The sound of a peck on a cheek. "Let me know if you need anything else when you're resting." Erik glanced up to see Ima cup the young woman's cheeks and lightly give her a kiss on the forehead.

"You're so good to this old woman," she told her fondly. "The bakery is in your capable hands." They shared a smile that was perhaps deeper than it led on to believe.

"I should… I need to finish making the dough to let it rise for tomorrow," Erzsebet told her mentor. Ima nodded her assent, lighting a match. The acrid sulfur sputtered a flame to life and she began lighting the candelabras in front of her. She covered her eyes and spoke her prayers softly.

" _Baruch atah Adonai, eloheinu melech ha'olam_ ," she murmured through the prayers over the warm glow of the candles, took a sip of wine, and broke the braided bread Erzsebet had placed down beside her. Erik listened to the Hebrew in silent rapture. He had never seen a Jew pray before and it contradicted a lot of what he had been told.

"- _hamotzi lechem min haaretz_ are you just going to keep sitting in the cold or are you going to come inside?" Erik nearly jumped out of his skin when he realized Ima finished speaking Hebrew and switched back to Romanian to address him. He bolted to his feet in proper accordance with the manners he was taught to be a gentleman.

Ima tapped her lips, "the breath never lies. It was puffing away like you were a pipe!" She laughed at her own little joke, her face illuminated through the golden lights. She popped the piece of bread in her mouth and smiled at him thoughtfully.

"Come in," she told him without question, "I won't have you sleeping in the woods."

Erik bowed his head in shame for being caught spying. "No thank you," he muttered before turning on his heel and running into the woods.

Ima shook her head and frowned. "I'll still leave the window open for you, child," she told the running figure, knowing full well he could not hear her.


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: I really appreciate all the reviews! Before anyone asks, yes, I am Jewish as well so steeping in some history alongside some gothic horror always seems like a good idea. And if you have any questions you want to ask me directly, feel free to do it on my tumblr, TallestSilver . tumblr . com. You really help motivate me to write this! THANK YOU!**

Erik scrambled away from the glow of the bakery as quickly as his legs would allow, but not breaking out into a full run. As the tree growth thickened, he slowed down to a walk.

"Villagers never trek into the woods after nightfall," he told himself, true to anywhere. Lots of creatures lived in the woods and he was no stranger to wild animals. Erik felt like he was more akin to them than to the rest of humanity.

His shoes crunched through the wooded area, snowflakes falling more rapidly and sticking to the ground more readily. It would be a freezing night, but again, nothing he was unaccustomed to. He gripped his long coat and thrust his hands into his pockets, his violin case strapped to his back. His mask continued to rub uncomfortably against his face with each breath and he scowled at the increasing irritation.

 _'Well, no one is around…'_ A passing thought of some poor soul lost in the woods seeing his horrific face made for a potential situation he would rather not endure, but the likelihood of finding someone out here, even on a full moon night, was miniscule.

He slung the violin case forward and gently placed it on the ground, unlatching the buckles as he removed his mask. As quickly as he could manipulate the mask to put it on, his movements were languid and hesitant to remove it. His breath was slow and measured, trying to maintain poise. Erik used his fingertips to delicately remove the strings and lift the edges from his face. His features were struck with the biting cold and the open sores beat with his heart, but already the raw pain had lessened. The icy air steadily brought welcomed relief. He clicked the case shut once its added cargo was safely stored.

He gripped the wooden case and continued his march through the woods to find a more comfortable place to rest for the night. He eyed the trees that surrounded him; they were too tall, too narrow- ' _not too unlike me_ ,' he thought - to climb easily. The delicately falling snow would prove to be too slippery to try and climb, even if the branches were within his reach.

Dead leaves still scattered the forest floor, their trees left bare and straight. Erik kicked a pile together and nestled into his makeshift bed. Undoubtedly he would find little creatures roosting underneath the leaves for protection, but what was a few arachnid associates to one so spidery as him?

Erik wasn't tired, but he most assuredly was weary of walking in the cold. As long as the snow kept falling, the temperature would continue to drop. He knew it was a fool's errand to maintain wanderings in such frigid temperatures. He sat down against a sturdy tree and buried his long legs underneath the fallen leaves, already succumbing to decay. Erik grimaced. Had he a nose, it would have wrinkled in disgust. He could not help his outward appearance, but he did try and maintain a pleasant fragrance -or at least a neutral one. Rotting leaves did not contribute to his hygienic tendencies.

The snow began to tinge the dark wood with white, a salt-and-pepper speckled look. Erik set about the task of inspecting his irritated face. He withdraw a trusty knife from his pocket, and using the blade, angled it to look at his face as minimally as possible. He caught the moonlight just right and revealed a mass of angry, red welts.

A small cry of astonishment left his lips as his fingertips brushed against the swollen bumps. They were scattered around his mask line, forehead, and what passed for his cheeks. A few were inflamed with the very tips white with pus. He prodded one of the white capped pustules and it burst, oozing white fluid leaked from the fleshy volcano. Erik wiped the mess from his face with the back of his hand. Blood smeared across his pale skin and he whimpered.

"Erik's ugliness is growing," his voice quivered and cracked, which made him all the more miserable. Tears began leaking from his yellow eyes as he hurriedly pressed clean snow into the open wound he created to ease the flush he felt. The melting powder mingled with the hot tears that began freely falling from his face, making the poor boy feel more hot with crimson. His nasal cavity puffed with air as he became more and more upset with every passing second.

"Erik's one beautiful thing is-hic-no longer beautiful," he said aloud, his quavering lamentations interrupted with hiccups, "and his face-hic-grows more and more-hic-revolting! He will-hic-be a pockmarked mons-hic-trosity with nothing to re-re-redeem him!" He wailed, flopping his face down into the snow and sobbing hysterically. His fists beat against the ground, hitting a rock, which swiftly eased his temper-tantrum.

He swallowed large gulps of air, trying to calm himself down, but his nose-hole was already leaking lacrimal liquid making his face a wet mess. He reached into his coat to remove his handkerchief to clean his mess, but his fingers found nothing. Only then did he realize his handkerchief was left with Erzsebet. Lacking the scrap of cloth, he wiped his messy face hastily with the back of his sleeve, mucus and tears smearing in a trail on the wool.

"Monsters are scary," he mumbled hoarsely, "monsters are unlovable. Erik is a monster."

His eyes and cheeks ached. The hole in his face continue to leak. He sniffed and swallowed back the mucus, but it continued to drain. His hiccups continued to interrupt his breathing as he eased back down from his emotional outburst. He stared out into the woods absentmindedly as his fingers sought out his knife and nimbly manipulated it between them, making the small piece of metal disappear and reappear with his sleight of hand.

"Erik is a monster," he mumbled once again, thinking of his beautiful, awful mother screaming those words at him and making him repeat them over and over again.

But how beautiful she was…

With one last sigh, his hiccups left him, and he pocketed his knife. Erik was finally numb to the cold, numb to his face, and numb to his feelings. The mask of indifference had washed over him, and he simply acted as if he hadn't had an emotional outburst.

That was until something was staring back at him from the woods.

Erik immediately focused on a shadow coming from in between the narrow trees. A large, black wolf bristled its fur and a deep, growl emanated from its throat. Its yellow teeth were bared, fleks of saliva dribbled off of them and onto its wide lips.

Erik leapt to his feet, never breaking eye contact from the apex predator. With a large paw, it took one slow step toward Erik, and he took one slow step backward. His hands were splayed behind him, to feel any impediatements that would get in his way of escaping. The wolf was large, its shaggy fur on end, ears pointed directly at Erik.

"Nice wolf…" Erik said with a much calmer voice than he felt, "easy boy," he spoke as though he was speaking with a dog rather than a much larger, more terrifying version of one.

The wolf gnashed its teeth with a threatening bark. For a moment, they regarded each other. Tension was thick in the air and fear flooded Erik when he could sense what would happen next; simultaneously they moved. The wolf jumped. Erik threw himself to the side to avoid the pounce of the beast. He scrambled to his feet and bolted as fast as his skinny legs could carry him. The wolf barked after its prey and began the chase.

Erik wove between the trees, trying to shake off the monster that chased him. Bare bushes and brambles reached out and tore at him, snagging his clothes and providing little slashes as he pushed through. He never looked back, but could feel the wolf just paces behind him.

Gnashing and snarling teeth were just behind him; Erik knew he could not let up. The landscape was a blur of branches and tall black stripes. Erik could barely sense the ground below him, he just knew he _had_ to keep moving forward as fast as he could.

His foot stubbed against an outcropping of rock and Erik skidded into a gully, mud caked his back and he tucked his limbs into himself. He clutched at his legs, pressing them into his chest to make himself as small as possible, hiding against the rocks. His entire body trembled as the wolf leapt overhead and continued bounding away.

Erik finally could hear his own breathing, he had grown deaf to everything else but the sound of the wolf. He was violently shaking, unable to control his own adrenaline, when he realized the wolf was heading straight into town. And the nearest house was…

His eyes flashed in the dim light and he scrambled up out of the gully, despite sliding down and losing a foothold several times. He gave a sharp whistle with his fingers, the first time just a puff of sharp air because he trembled so badly. The wolf turned and rounded on Erik, snapping its teeth and snarling a short bark at him.

Erik's yellow eyes stared into the yellow eyes of the wolf. Erik ran towards and then past the wolf, its hind legs slipping underneath its own weight as it tried to pivot to bite the boy. Erik ran hard, steering clear of what he assumed to be the village, trying to maintain the exhausting chase in the forest. More and more clearings gave some room to try and shake off the wolf. Erik would try and weave one way, but the beast would cut him off with snapping teeth and flexed claws, and so he had to bolt in the opposite direction.

Erik knew he had to escape the woods where the wolf certainly had the advantage.

Acting on instinct, Erik darted toward a rough, dirt road. If there was any chance of running into an unlucky traveler, they might have a more adept weapon than Erik's measly knife, he might have a chance to survive this encounter.

The dirt road began to incline, ever so slightly at first, but became more pronounced as the burning in Erik's side could attest. He was finding it harder to breathe, but run he must. There weren't any wheel tracks embedded into the mud or dirt. This was a road hardly used.

The slope and fatigue made him stumble, but he would use his outstretched arms to right himself in midstep, pushing off with his hands. The pounding of the wolf's paws echoed in his ears, or was that the pounding of his own heart?

He continued to run, reckless and hopelessly, knowing, just _knowing_ that he would feel the searing pain of a bite in any moment.

 _'Perhaps this death would be better. I would no longer plague this world with my existence.'_

The sloping road continued higher, and to Erik's left a vertical cliff full of rocky outcroppings led towards salvation. Erik threw himself against the rocks and immediately began to climb. Wolves were not known for their climbing prowess. Sure enough, the beast stopped below Erik, attempting to follow him up, but sliding down the crumbling rocks. The wolf paced below him, snarling and growling low, waiting for Erik to plummet down to waiting jaws.

The climb was steep, but accessible. Loose rocks slipped from Erik's grasping hands, making him falter. He looked down to view the drop. It was a few yards down, if Erik slipped, the fall would not kill him.

That is, if the sharp jaws didn't do the job.

He hoisted himself up once more. The road wound its way around the cliffside and provided some rest for Erik as it met the side where he was climbing. He gave himself a moment, lying on the dirt flecked with snow, panting with exhaustion, feet still dangling over the edge. Erik sensed something move to his left, and he lurched away, ready to flee once again. But to his relief, it wasn't the wolf. He still heard the pacing agitation from down below. It was a strange creature, no, there were two. Larger than a rat and twice as ugly. They had sparse amounts of hair and were armored and scaly. Erik stared, mouth agape as the creatures waddled by him. One creature misstepped and fell, curling itself into a small ball, its head completely hidden within its scaly armor, its tail curled around itself.

Erik felt immediate kinship with the revolting creatures.

"I wish I could do that," he muttered to the foreign animal as gravity took control and it rolled away. He continued to heave himself off of the cliff and onto the road. When Erik got to his feet, he peered down to spy on the wolf.

It was no longer there.

Terror gripped him once again when he realized he didn't know the predator's location, and he looked everywhere for any kind of shelter; Erik could not maintain running for his life. He needed to curl up and hide.

A large gate led to an entrance of an unknown building and Erik decided to take his chances. He moved with the darkness, throwing his weight against the iron gate. The gate was unlocked and whined against the boy's slight frame, opening far more easily than he anticipated. He was thrown off balance and stumbled inside the walled off courtyard.

What looked like it once held dozens of people was left untouched. The courtyard that would have held castle life was covered in years of dust and neglect. Erik was stunned. A medieval fortress that should bear the signs of crumbling decay was simply stagnant; the walls remained upright without signs of collapse, no lichens permeated between the spaces, no mischievous rats scurried by. The place was asleep and covered in dirt.

Erik wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, staring in odd wonder at the stillness. Snowflakes continued to drift down in the open courtyard, but they provided the only movement. The white was a stark contrast to the red tiles and decrepit grey surrounding him.

He took several steps in, gazing around in wonder, when the gate swung closed. He jumped around, ready to flee at a moment's notice, but nothing spurned it to shut. Not even a whisper of wind. He backed away from the iron gates, unease overtaking him. He was hyper alert for any sounds of the wolf; he could not sense whether he was still being hunted.

At least he had some cover for the night.

Erik was going to settle in under a canopy of stone when he heard something he didn't expect: laughter.

The sound of a girlish giggle echoed faintly around him and he spun around to find the sound. It was fading quickly.

He found himself at the entrance of another doorway, unaware that his feet had led him there, this time large wooden doors stood imposing in front of him. Erik put his hand against the stones and admired the masonry. The archway was carefully carved with an artist's hand, rising above intricately carved human figures. Seated with the people was the winding body of a serpent. Erik frowned, trying to place the imagery, if it was from a classic myth or not. The most imposing sight he beheld was the door knocker: a dragon's head, about to spew flames from its sharp mouth, held the knocker between jagged teeth.

Erik hesitated, unsure to knock or just to proceed forward on his own. The latter was much more favorable than the former and reduced interaction between the owner of the castle and himself. He would just get in, stay for the night, and leave for somewhere else.

While Erik debated his choices, the door made the decision for him and swung open.


	5. Chapter 5

Erik took a step back when the door opened on its own, clamping his large hand over most of his face out of instinct. At least the gaping hole in his face was covered. No one took kindly to a skeleton face.

However, it was for naught. No one greeted him at the door. Erik turned on his heel to leave the ominous castle, until he heard the howl of a wolf. Erik was too tired to run any more, so the thought of evading the wolf was more than he could bear. He crept inside, alert, but weary.

Understanding he wouldn't be able to keep his hand over his face the entire time he explored the supposed abandoned castle, Erik untucked his shirt, tugging at the hemline. Enough force caused the wide weave to rip, and what wouldn't rip, he used his trusty knife to finish the job. He tore the hem off of his shirt and attempted to make a makeshift mask with it, boring holes wide enough for his eyes. He placed the fabric to his face, winding the tails into a bow, careful not to tangle his black hair into it. Now that he was properly clothed, Erik could examine his surroundings.

The entrance hall was sparsely decorated making it seem more vast. The stonework on the castle was old and the tapestries that hung from the walls were covered in dust. Erik gently touched the masonry, trying to imagine the life the stonecutters breathed into it many years ago. It was rather crude, for Erik's tastes, some areas looking older than others.

The tapestries were faded, but Erik could tell that they were once vibrant. The embroidery was rich with details of battles and enemies being impaled by spikes. The red, albeit faded, was striking the gorey images and splatters of blood.

Erik was captivated by the scenes of horror and mayhem, appreciating the fine weaving, when a voice interrupted his thoughts.

"Good evening."

Erik flinched, his hands reflexively returning to his makeshift mask to ensure it was in place before he addressed his host.

Atop a large staircase stood an imposing figure. Dressed all in black, he blended in well with the shadows in the dimly lit room. He moved down the steps slowly and noiselessly. Erik straightened up just a little more, as custom would dictate, when in the presence of someone whom you should show respect. His slow descent commanded that sort of respect and Erik faltered, unsure if he was impeding on royalty. 

Draped around the host was a large fur cape to stave off the chill. The black scraggly fur made Erik shiver slightly from the image of the wolf that had chased him down not moments before. He still felt like prey. 

The man stood before Erik, and even in the dim candlelight, they regarded each other. The host was only slightly taller than Erik, something that could easily be remedied within a few years. Black hair, slicked back almost into points with white and grey streaking by his temples. All of his features were pointed and pronounced: high cheek bones, a sharp jaw that was framed with a strong salt and pepper mustache and goatee, even his ears seemed pointed, but it was his nose that Erik focused on. It was hooked and large and glorious. It was everything Erik wished he could have. His golden eyes could not look away from the man until he spoke again.

"Welcome Erik. I have been expecting you."

Erik jolted back. Not only did this man know his name, but Erik realized he had been speaking his native French to him, not Romanian or Hungarian as was the custom of the region. His accent, however, made the light French words thick and heavy. It was an accent that Erik could not place.

"I was not expecting to be expected." Erik could not help himself but be snarky in his mother language.

The host frowned and his eyes narrowed ever so slightly, before erupting into laughter. His teeth were gleaming white, even in the shadows.

"You amuse me, boy," he told Erik, a smile still on his face. He put his hand on Erik's shoulder in a welcoming gesture, and ushered him inside. Erik recoiled slightly away from his hand and walked forward deeper into the castle, unsure why he was allowing this to happen.

"How do you know my name?" Erik had a tone of lightness, but still demanded to know. He was being led up the stairs into the castle without even being aware of his legs.

"I have my ways," came the reply. Erik was clearly unsatisfied by that answer, but his host continued, "being Count of the area gives me many indulgences. Knowledge being one of them," his voice was low and soft, like a purr. Erik's mind felt foggy, walking in a haze. He had a vague memory that slipped like water from his mind of doing this with his voice to his mother.

"You are the Count," he mumbled dumbly, his body continue to move without his acknowledgment. Erik's sense of panic tried to rise within him and told him he should not be here, but another part of him told him to relax and he may be comfortable here.

"Very observant," the Count teased as easily as Erik had with him. "I am the Count of this region."

He grabbed a torch against a wall that illuminated the hallway they began to walk down. Erik was befuddled how they already scaled the staircase. The Count did not bother to light the other torches, some with cobwebs clinging to their shafts, but instead held aloft the when he had taken to light their way. Their footsteps were muffled by the dusty rug that ran down the elongated hallway. The flickering flames made a small circle around the two, but did little to stave off the heavy darkness.

"I am known by many names," he told Erik, the sound of his long, furry cape dragging across the muted crimson carpet provided a quiet susurration. "I am Vlad, some call me Vlad _Tepes_ , others.. _Drakulya_."

Erik took pause and stopped in his tracks, his mask crinkling against his forehead as his brow furrowed in comprehension. "Dracula…? Son of the-"

"-Dragon, yes. My father, you see."

They stood in front of a large portrait of a man in medieval garb. The painting seemed crude, patches of paint missing. The figure was painting in a red garment, holding a prominent dagger close to his person. A mustache, as pronounced as his alleged son's framed his grimacing mouth. His almond eyes looking off to battles unknown.

The painting seemed far too old to be of someone's father. Of a someone standing before him, rather.

"The men in our clan have all been bestowed the name by the Order of the Dracul," Vlad told Erik, as though he was reading his concern. The resemblance was uncanny, but Erik accepted the tale at face value. At the moment, it made logical sense.

What was logic?

The slow, methodical pace continued. Erik spied more cobwebs, thick with dust and the body cavities of hapless insects devoured by the architects of the webs. Erik stopped walking. Some semblance of sense was breaking free from his mind. He would not become a husk like those insects.

"Why were you expecting me?"

The gave the Count pause. He, too, stopped his pace and turned back to look at Erik. The expression on his face was difficult to read; it was if he also had a mask upon his face, disguising his true intent. He flashed Erik a smile with his brilliant teeth once more.

"Allow me to show you to your room so that you may," he eyed Erik up and down, his gaze also flicking from behind them, "make yourself _presentable_."

Erik turned back to see he was tracking mud the entire time into the old castle. Wet splotches from mud and snow further tainted the dusty carpet, making the hallway even mustier. Erik's ears turned red with shame as a blush bloomed on his hidden cheeks. An apology felt thick on his tongue and he was not able to utter his embarrassment to a nobleman.

Vlad continued to smile at Erik, although his amusement did not reach his eyes. They were cold and steely as ever. He gave a quick knock against the stone wall, and the rocks groaned against each other as a hidden door opened.

Erik was released from his embarrassment at the hidden chamber. It was exactly something he had wanted to build, trying to make designs for on sleepless nights. And lo, before him, stood a hidden room.

"This castle is very old," Vlad told the adolescent, who was eager to explore the hidden room, touching the door frame, trying to inspect for any hidden latches, "it holds many secrets. I am looking for someone who may uncover what lies beneath."

Erik stopped fiddling with the doorframe, searching for the contraption that made it open, and looked at Vlad squarely, astonished and skeptical of the man.

"Beauty is often buried beneath rotting exteriors," he continued to Erik, "would you be willing to search and reveal the beauty of this place?"

Erik swallowed his uncertainty and fear. The Count's honeyed, enticing words were too great. Vlad's words penetrated Erik directly to his heart.

"Yes," he breathed out, as though he were hearing his voice from someone else far away. Everything felt surreal, too good to be true. "Please."

"Then consider my castle your home now," replied the Count. He gave a small nod to Erik, his smile never faltering and yet never reaching his eyes. "I will arrange supper for you down in the dining hall. Shall we say one hour?"

With a swish of his long cloak, Vlad disappeared behind the shadows and Erik stood inside of his new room, and as best as his eyes could tell, once again, he was all alone.

He moved deeper into the room, the door sliding shut of its own accord. Erik whirled back around, his hands pressing on the stone wall.

"There must be a sliding mechanism, there _has_ to be," he muttered, pressing to sense any give. His fingers ghosted along the seam, which he knew to be there but could no longer see. He pushed, he pressed, he tried to slide the door from whence it opened, but to no avail. Erik grunted with the strain of trying to pry the sealed door, but it remained closed off to him. Remembering how Vlad revealed the door, Erik gave a short tap, approximately near the area where the Count had knocked. The door opened with a whoosh and a mechanical scrape, as though acting on a metallic wheel.

Erik knelt down and delicately touched the ground, feeling for any track that would allow for such a mechanized sound. He found only stone. He resumed his standing posture, frowning at the ground when the door slammed shut once more.

"Well then," he told the door with mock affront, "I shall not inquire to your devices any further. You needn't react like that."

He closed his eyes and heaved a sigh, his mind recapping all that had happened within only a few hours span. He came into town, informally met two women and a nasty priest all the while being mostly ignored by townsfolk, he played triumphantly with his vi-

His eyes shot open in panic.

"My violin! My masks!" 

Erik groped at his sodden coat, scrambling to find any whereabouts of his violin case. Gripping at his makeshift, shoddy mask, he realized with dread that it remained in the forest, nestled securely by the brown and dying leaves.

If the snow did not cease its swirling flurries, it would most likely be abandoned and forgotten underneath a pile of powder.

Erik clenched his fists in anger, aimed directly at himself, for being so forgetful about something so important to him.

"No doubt I will be swindled with a horrific price if I were to acquire a new one!" He lamented. His fingers pressed against his face, wishing to rip off his abhorrent visage, and just start life anew. He tugged at his dark hair in frustrated anguish, wanting to knock over every piece of furniture in his humble room, all while knowing it would be a blight upon his strange host if he were to do so. Erik attempted to be a gentleman, at the very least.

He stumbled his way over to the bed to perhaps scream out his anger when he noticed something very peculiar waiting for him.

He ceased his emotional outburst and stared at the wooden case.

"How… did this happen?" He breathed out the words, softly, afraid if he said them too loudly, the package would vanish akin to a mirage.

His violin case sat unscathed on the bed.

With trembling fingers he touched it to verify its solidness. Without a doubt, it remained intact on the bed. He crouched on top of the mattress, sinking lightly under his lithe body, and he unclasped the buckles. The compartments were untouched, the wooden instrument still gleamed. He held it out in reverence, the singular candle on his bedside table provided a warm glow that made the polished wood shine. He delicately placed it beside its case on the bed, rummaging through to ensure his collection of masks were still secure.

Erik carefully pulled each mask out, to ensure its travels had been safe. His black, full face mask remained intact, as did his white leather one with the mouth exposed. A shorter, domino mask with a light cloth mouth covering was placed beside the two. Then he uncovered some white dust clinging to its fabric.

" _Merde_!" He spat, in frustration, revealing his porcelain mask had broken. White, matte pieces of the mask were scattered throughout the case, evidently breaking in their transport. The right half of the mask remained whole, its left half shattered into chunks and dust. He held it up to his face to see if it was salvageable. It exposed too much of his left side. Sharp cheekbone, his skeletal grimace, and even part of his gaping nostril hole was revealed. Too much skin for his liking. He sighed, tossing it away.

"I enjoyed that mask, too," he grumbled spitefully. He thought about how the porcelain chafed his skin, and perhaps he was not too remiss about losing it. It did strike an imposing image, however.

Erik shed his coat, more cautious about the mud and leaf debris he now carried. The room he occupied was simple. No windows, a bedside table with the lone glowing candle, a snuffer to accompany it, and a simple wooden shelf against the stone wall with a few books perched on it. His chamber opened up to a smaller washing room where a clawfoot bathtub stood along with a basin of freshly steaming water.

Expected indeed.

He fastidiously removed his garments, unbuttoning his cuffs and shirt, placing them neatly on a nearby chair. He stared straight at the tub, refusing to look at his own body. Peeling away his clothing was highly ritualized for Erik, his movements practiced so he could do it in the dark. That was his preference above all else, not to look at his own body. Last to be removed was his crude mask. He tossed it aside as he unbound his stubby ponytail. Bits of foliage and forest debris flaked away as his hair fell to frame his face.

A tawny sea sponge sat next to the steaming basin accompanied by a bar of simple ivory soap. Erik didn't bother with pouring the liquid into the tub. Luxuries were not something he was afforded and he did by without them for so long.

He grabbed the sponge, plunged it into the scalding water, and simply applied it to his person, his gaze transfixed ahead of him, staring at the blank wall. He cautiously dabbed at his face, feeling infinitely better as the muck was removed. A quick sudsing and rinse finished the task, leaving a muddy puddle of grime at his feet. The puddle of liquid streamed away from him, toward the tub, where a small hole positioned underneath the tub drew it away and down an unseen drain.

Indoor plumbing was not a foreign concept to Erik, but it was evidently to the castle.

Erik haphazardly scrubbed a nearby towel all over his person, drying quickly and roughly. With his aching face, he gently dapped it dry, placing more pressure against his sinuses to help ease out any mucus that might make him congested. Luckily for him, he did not require the use of his gifted handkerchief. He draped the towel around his waist, as he slicked and tied his hair back once more. He returned to his chamber to find a robe, slacks, and matching tunic awaiting him. Erik stared at the clean clothing, swallowing the fear that gripped him.

Not had someone been in his room without notice, they had certainly seen him naked, an experience no one should bear witness.

He gripped his towel more tightly, looking everywhere for the sign of intrusion. Not finding anything amiss, he quickly snatched the clothes and placed them upon his body. Her shirked on the pants and tunic, hurriedly tying the strings to close the tunic shut, revealing as little of his collarbone as possible. The fabric was coarse and sparsely decorated, with an off putting beige color. The robe was more of Erik's sensibilities, red and black satin with detailed embroidery throughout. He belted the robe shut securely, ensuring that it would not loosen and someone would not get another glimpse of his scarred and bony body.

Fitting his mouthless mask back on his face, Erik sat back down on the bed. He ran his hand absentmindedly on the thick quilt, as he reminisced about the day's events. His bones felt weary already and he certainly did not want anything as disdainful as dinner, despite his escapades from earlier.

Girlish laughter faintly reverberated in his room and Erik convulsed back and off the bed, scrambling to hide himself. Common sense brought him back from his initial panic. The room was entirely closed off, he certainly did not hear a woman's laughter. The sole occupants of the castle were the Count and himself.

Erik steadied himself on the bed, staring straight ahead at the opposite wall. His hands gripped his knees in a claw-like vice, trying to calm his gurgling apprehension. It was then that a bell poised at the base of his bed began to chime. A string leading into the wall was being pulled taught, and it rang for Erik.

"Supper," he muttered, sliding his feet into awaiting slippers. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Thanks for all the reviews! Warning: this chapter gets a little gory. If you're squeamish about bodily fluids, you can skip this chapter.**

It wasn't as though Erik detested eating entirely; he just had a sordid relationship with food. Meals were either thrust upon him with the overbearing demands of eating more than his stomach could hold -in the attempts of adding some weight to his bony body to be less skeletal- or ignored entirely. His mask also proved to be a daring obstacle that he had to overcome. It was not conducive to a chewing cheek or a moving mouth. He could not use ventriloquy with food, lips still and unyielding, as he could with speech. Erik therefore was extremely self conscious when he ate, even more so if it was in the proximity of another person.

Memories with his mother flashed before him, placing a stone of dread in his stomach. Young Erik seated before a plate of food piled high, his palms pressed on the table as his mother screamed at him to eat more.

"EAT!" She would scream. "EAT MORE! Your face is awful enough, do you want your body to match?!"

Either two scenarios occured: Erik in his stubbornness, never said a word, keeping his mouth clamped shut. Neither a morsel nor a word passed his lips and that enraged his mother more until she would strike him. Or he would swallow bite after bite until he complained he could no longer fit anything more into his stomach. This was not admissible for his mother and she would insist on one more forkful. Often she would take it upon herself and spoon-fed him more, resulting in Erik throwing up the entire meal. Then she, or many times the shaking boy, would clean up the putrid mess.

This went on frequently until he ran away.

Needless to say, he was not looking forward to supper with the Count.

Custom would dictate, however, that one must attend at the host's request. Erik did strive to be a gentleman even when he seemed the monster.

Erik slid from his perch on the mattress and gave a hard knock on the hidden door. It opened to reveal the Count standing directly in front of the door, at the ready to escort Erik down.

"I see the outfit I have chosen fits well enough," he told Erik as the two of them made their silent approach to the dining room.

"It appears to be suitable," Erik said, unsure on how to take the comment. The garments hung loosely on him as though he was a clothes rack.

They continued to walk in silence, Erik keeping a few paces behind his host. Dracula's movements unnerved and intrigued him. He moved freakishly fluidly, as if he were hovering above the ground instead of walking upon it. His head never bobbed with his steps, remaining perfectly still. Erik could almost see an imaginary stack of books on Vlad's head, never tilting or falling with his smooth movements. He tried to imitate his host, copying his effortless motion.

"They are customary here in Transylvania," Vlad said nonchalantly as they passed more gruesome tapestries depicting more impalements, referring back to their previous conversation. True to his word, several men appeared to be wearing similar outfits to the one Erik was wearing, running into battles against other uniquely dressed soldiers. Erik was fairly enthralled with the gorey imagery, wanting to fully appreciate the intricate detailings of the tapestries more, perhaps in a well-lit area, but he knew better than to delay a meal provided.

"That particular ensemble is centuries old," Vlad continued lightly. Erik grabbed his heavily decorated robe and examined it more closely. "It has been passed down in my family for years. Everything here has been. I am a direct descendant of Vladislav the first, ruling this region from its very beginnings in 1364. His son, Radu the first, was the Prince of Wallachia co-ruling with his half-brother Vlad of Wallachia-"

Erik paid half attention to Dracula as he continued down his family line. His eyes crossed and rolled in exhausted annoyance. Leave it to the nobility to recount their lineage to impress anyone. Erik was left disgusted with the conversation. The reliance on who someone's father was and their actions or titles soured his already disgruntled disposition. He had to scrape by in life and knew he would have to continue to do so despite all his best efforts. His father was nobody to him, and by all accounts according to society, that made Erik a nobody as well.

He drowned out the sound of Dracula's voice by silently composing a ditty in his head. He would occasionally give an affirming nod or a gruff of apparent agreement or feigned appreciation.

"-and that is when her ungrateful subjects turned on her and locked her away to rot in a stone tower," Vlad spat full of spite, his voice deepening to a growl. His attention was to the large portrait beside them. A woman with an Elizabethan collar and a piercing gaze stared back at them. Erik squinted his eyes to read the faded inscription on the gilded frame.

"Countess Bathory?"

Vlad stood beside Erik and nodded solemnly.

"She was a ruthless leader. She helped us fight off the Invaders. Her husband was adequate in his military endeavors, but she-" Dracula paused for a moment, his eyes gleaming at her portrait, "she held such _creative_ vices." The lustful admiration that oozed from Vlad's voice made Erik shiver in horror. A part of him was repelled at questioning the Countess's creativity, but he felt insatiably curious.

"Why was she locked away?"

Vlad's mouth curled into one of his smiles.

"She kidnapped and tortured young women in a variety of ways. Her favorite was the Iron Maiden and bathing in the blood that flowed."

Erik nodded, absorbing the information, noticing how familiarly Vlad spoke about her and how she helped " _us_ ".

They reached the dining room in stoic silence. The room itself was fairly innocuous, standard of any rustic castle: an elongated table with seated chairs for entertaining many guests left abandoned, a single cast iron chandelier with minimal unlit candles, a beautiful oriental rug (its origin Erik could not place), but the center of attention was the large fireplace to grant the most light for the room. Like the doorknocker Erik had observed, it was carved as a gaping dragon's mouth, teeth and tongue about to lash out at its prey. Its eyes were carved looking upwards, as if it were erupting from hell to devour anyone who crossed its path. The fire within it danced in its jaws, casting shadows that made the head look more realistic, the eyes flickering with life.

"Sit, my guest, sit" Vlad pulled out the chair for Erik enthusiastically, seating him to his right side as Vlad took the head of the table. The seating was too close for comfort, only emphasized by the spare seats spanning the length of the table Before the pair sat a steaming feast of pheasant covered in paprika, a golden soup wafting the promise of spices and sour cream, and the distinct smell of cabbage stuffed with savory meats and possibly a grain. Dracula carved the pheasant and displayed the hastily cut pieces on Erik's plate. The bird was butchered in the typical fashion, but its plumage and detached head decorated the plate for presentation. Erik stared at the decapitated head as it stared back at him.

"It has been many a year since I had the opportunity to cook for someone," Dracula commented eagerly, flashing his disarming smile at Erik. Erik nodded his thanks and placed his napkin on his lap.

Although, that action was pointless; he wouldn't be needing it.

Dracula did not serve himself, instead just watched Erik. All he had was a single goblet in front of him, filled with a thick, red liquid.

"Not supping yourself?" Erik said, using his knife and fork to slowly cut his food. He was hoping conversation would distract Dracula so he would not see his guest refusing to dine.

Vlad's smile faltered and he sat back on his seat. "I have already feasted," he said carefully, taking a swig of his goblet and placing it down, not to spill the liquid.

They both sat, completely reserved. The fire snapped.

Erik lightly scraped a piece of flesh from one side of his plate to the other. "You don't have servants." It wasn't stated as a question, but Erik was clearly searching for an explanation.

The Count searched for the correct words.

"I find it… _difficult_ to find staff for my castle," he said carefully. "This place is very ancient and carries with it… _bad_ memories." He flicked his wrist to dismiss accusations. "These memories are now woven into superstitions." He leaned in closer to Erik, as if sharing an amusing joke, "who knows if they ring with truth?" Vlad chuckled deeply to himself and took another drink of his draught.

Erik tilted his spoon back in the golden soup, creating delicate waves in the liquid. Soup was especially difficult for him to eat. It usually involved his teeth scraping on the utensil, his mouth rigid and hard as he would try to prevent any liquid from seeping out of his cleft palate. Heaven forbid someone startle him while he ate soup, lest he almost choke and the soup dribble out from his gaping nose hole.

He hated the act of eating soup but it was always _so good_.

The yellow soup stared back at Erik as he continued swirling it around, fishing out a piece of white spongy meat. ' _Perhaps drinking soup out of a cup or goblet would be more efficient'_. He made a mental to note to try that as he cut the tender flesh with his spoon. His stomach clenched as he realized the meat was in fact, stomach. The porous ribbing made Erik feel more aware of his own organs as the offal bobbed from the pressure of his spoon, and he began to feel more ill. The spices of the pheasant and the acrid of the sour cream began to make his stomach churn. He gingerly set down his spoon.

"Are things not to your liking?"

"I find myself with little appetite," - _always_ , came the unfinished remark.

Dracula was examining Erik closely. Erik straightened out his back a little more, keeping his gaze fixed on the food that grew less and less appealing at every moment. His eyes wander the table to look at anything else that would make him feel less ill.

The crackling fire made shadows dance around the two diners. It created deep creases against their persons, make each man look more ominous. Vlad had been intently watching Erik, his posture slumped over and calculating, but open Erik noticing, he reclined back to give a more casual appearance. The shadow cast on the opposing wall made it look as though Vlad had crossed his arms from behind his head, but the figure before him did nothing of the sort, his arms resting on his chair.

A trick of the unreliable light, to be certain. Open reexamination, Vlad's shadow was properly in its place.

"What wine are you drinking?"

Vlad gave Erik his unsettling, knowing smile. "I do not drink wine," he said coolly. "This is a draught provided to me by an apothecary. A medicine of sorts. Perhaps you would find some benefits in it?"

Dracula's voice was slow and methodical. His accent trilled against the words and it made Erik relax. He slowly nodded his ascent and Vlad poured him a cup for his guest. The cup was placed before Erik. He pushed the other plates away from him, even the smell of cabbage seemed putrid to him.

The cup held the dark liquid. Erik's reflection stared back at him. Bits of _something_ clung to the pewter edges, spices perhaps? An emulsion of egg? The influencing effects of a beverage -perhaps laced with laudanum as many apothecaries were so fond of- would provide much needed calm. Erik decided it was more than likely the draught contained the opioid, the bitter smell and reddish tint verified it. He tilted it carefully to his lips, the cup bumping against his mask and poured the entire contents in one swift motion.

He immediately regretted his decision.

This was not a happy beverage of mulled wine and spices or a tonic to soothe his nerves; it was blood. The unfamiliar globules Erik mistook for seasoning were in fact the congealed protein, the fresh blood trying to clot itself. The mineral, coppery smell along with the warm, slippery feeling, more viscous than water, made his abdominals clench in disgust. Even worse, it was nauseatingly _sweet._ The smell, the feel, the taste, everything about it was overwhelming his senses and he could think of nothing else. He felt the slimy liquid trickle down his throat as he held it in his mouth, his belly convulsing with efforts to purge the substance out.

Dracula gazed intently at Erik with deep interest as the boy tried to swallow the blood. Erik held his position, hands splayed like claws at the table as his desperation grew. In trying to gag out the blood, he swallowed more, making the feeling worsen. Alas, it was to no avail. His stomach heaved up its contents and what was left in his mouth all over the table. Red splattered Erik, flecking the barely-touched serving platters. He continued to retch, his body trying to force every last repellent drop out of his system. His convulsions slowed, and he was left with a shaking body and the sour taste of bile in his mouth.

Erik cast his gaze down, deeply ashamed at his biological behavior. He slowly dabbed at his mouth with his napkin, lightly cleaning up what he could on his person.

It was wonderful to know a couple hundred years old clothing was now stained in putrid crimson.

He breathed deeply before turning toward Vlad, "I believe I am finished with supper. May I be excused?"

Dracula's expression was unyielding. His face did not reveal his reactions to the eruption that just occured. It was if he, too, were wearing a mask.

"Of course," came his reply. He stood up along with Erik.

"I can find my own way to return to my room," Erik told the Count, "you needn't trouble yourself-"

The Count silenced him with a look.

"Never," he told Erik darkly, "walk these halls unaccompanied." His tone was deathly serious, and Erik heeded the warning. Unfortunately, it left more questions open than it answered and Erik was finding himself insatiably curious with this whole affair. He nodded and allowed the Count to escort him back to his room.

"Good night, Erik. Tell me if you need anything," were the Count's final words before the door slid shut.

Erik crumbled onto the bed, feeling absolutely dreadful. He slung off his mask, noticing with revulsion the edges by his mouth dipped in red. He shoved the wretched thing back into his large violin case when something was in its way. He pushed the object aside and found the roll Erzsebet had insisted he take. The roll he had refused but she still delivered to him.

He thought about its twin, the wafting aroma that smelled like a home he never knew. He curled up in the fetal position over the quilted mattress, holding the roll to his chest. His body was calming from its earlier churning. He took careful bites of the crusty bread, tougher now that it was practically a day old.

The day was over and he was completely exhausted. Erik slept.

* * *

In the village, Erzsebet was just unweaving her braid, loosening the strands with her fingers. Her yellow hair spilled over the shoulders of her chemise and she paused. She listened intently and when she heard scuffling, she called out to the other room, "Ima, go to bed! I can handle whatever it is in the morning."

The door opened and the older woman shuffled in, clearly distracted, a finger hooked in a candle holder.

"He hasn't come back, has he?" She headed toward her isolated window and opened the shutters.

"Who, Ima?"

Ima waved her free hand in circles as if it were obvious. "Who, she asks," she muttered under her breath, "who! That young man! What was his name?"

Erzsebet shook her head with an open mouth. She had nothing to add.

"He'll come back, you watch. Keep your window unlatched. I have a feeling he's a sneaky one and will come in that way." She shut the shutters and gasped with an idea. "The fireplace! He may try that. If I just-" she began to shuffle away in her slippers when Erzsebet gently placed her hand on Ima's arm.

"We need to keep the hearth warm. I'll make extra food in the morning?"

Ima's head bobbed in both agreement and recognition she may have been too motherly.

"All right, all right, I see what you mean. But no _strigoi_ will come, you know this."

"Yes Iiiimaaa," Erzsebet rolled her eyes and shooed the woman from her small room. Ima smiled and waved her goodnight.

She crawled back in bed, ready to extinguish the candle whose warm glow lit her way. She hesitated, looking back at the little window. She moved from her bed, creeping out of her room on soft tip toes. Quietly, she grabbed a bulb and plucked a clove. Erzsebet lightly treaded back to her room, crushing the pungent garlic in her hands and placing the stinking rose on the window sill. Satisfied, she snuggled under the blankets and the light was snuffed out.


	7. Chapter 7

**I am so sorry about the year + long delay. I will try and keep updating this far more regularly.**

* * *

Sleep was blessed and cursed relief for Erik. He was thoroughly exhausted, his body weary and too heavy to move, but his instincts were begging him not to succumb to the sweet lull. Crumbs littered his frock and bedding, the roll provided much relief to his sour stomach. A content belly, a hole the curl up in, and a thick quilt provided all the safety requirements Erik's body craved.

However, with the blissful unawareness of sleep came the torrential storm of nightmares.

He was standing on a stage, dozens of lights focused on him. He was singing, the song effortless rising from his throat to the amazement of a crowded audience. A flaxen beauty accompanied him, her voice swirling and curling around his in a duet. Each time he tried to look at her, his eyes burned, her body glowing with all the brilliance of the sun. She was familiar, he _knew_ her, but only his subconscious knew her. He had never seen her and yet he had seen her everywhere, all the time. She reached out to kiss him. He welcomed her embrace only for her to strike him. She was his mother, screaming and beating him, ripping his mask away from his face. Every blow of her fists rattled his bones. The audience was no longer in rapture, they were screaming, they were laughing, they were pointing at Erik. He scrambled away from her and suddenly the stage was longer there. In its stead, the beams of light turned into dark and narrow trees. He scrambled away, pushing and running, but only to slip further and further back. He looked behind him, to see the distance he had covered to put between his mother and in her stead, he found a snarling black wolf, flanked by two others. The ground was slick with ice, and Erik kept sliding backwards, despite his hard running. In desperation, he looked back at the wolves only to see Dracula flanked by two women, their mouths still filled with the wolves' teeth.

He slipped, the ground crumbling to dust underneath his feet, screaming as he plummeted down.

His body jolted in the bed and Erik woke with a scream at the edge of his throat, wanting to tear out. His body was moist with a layer of chilled sweat, but he had hardly moved within the bed. His heart hammered against his chest and he inhaled sharply, swallowing his cries and remaining silent.

A figure cloaked in shadows stood at the foot of his bed.

Erik sat up with the unexpected intrusion, cold adrenaline coursing through his body, ready to bolt away by any means necessary.

"Sleep," Dracula commanded. A pale hand reached toward Erik and gently lowered. Erik's body followed the demand, crumpling back down onto the bed. His eyes rolled back and lids were down even before his head hit the pillow. The flood of anxiety seeped away and crippling numbness was its replacement.

His rest was mercifully dreamless.

* * *

The Church bells echoed through the village, loud and demanding. Erzsebet secured a scarf around her head to protect her from the biting cold and donned her finger-less gloves. She left her humble room, pausing hesitantly at the door to look toward Ima, busy stoking the flames of the oven. She was humming softly to herself, slapping her hands off of one another, shaking the excess flour off as she moved to work more dough. She watched the older woman work, a knot of guilt in her stomach knowing she needed her help, but was leaving for several hours.

"I'm leaving," she called to her. Ima nodded as she continued to knead bread dough and hummed in acknowledgment.

"I'll need you to work the pastry dough for the _kürtőskalács_ when you come back. It's resting now, but you'll need to roll it out in the chimney shape." Ima didn't' look up, but continued aggressively kneading. Perhaps, she was a little _too_ involved with the dough.

Erzsebet nodded with a soft, "I will," and quietly closed the door behind her. She exhaled deeply, not realizing she was holding her breath. She marched along with the other villagers to the Church that commanded their attention. She clutched at a small golden cross that hung on a necklace around her neck, her steps hurried. Being late to church was societal suicide, not going at all was worse.

She wondered how Ima could do it.

Every Sunday, the process would repeat itself. Ima was distant in the morning, agonizingly quiet to where she seemed to ignore Erzsebet, or snappish, sending out biting criticisms over the small things. It was a routine they were used to, and it made Erzsebet's heart ache for the woman. She could only imagine the frustrations Ima must have, being ostracized so readily every week, to be constantly reminded of her otherness.

Father Popescu stood at the doors of the Church, nodding his head to everyone who passed by inside. Every so often, a soft hello passed his lips to individuals. Erzsebet tried to brush past without being noticed, but he held his hand out and stopped her, as he did every Sunday.

"She is still too stubborn to join you?" His question was gentle but tinged with accusation.

"It's not her belief," she told him firmly.

"And you allow her to not believe in Christ, knowing full well it will damn her?"

Erzsebet clenched her teeth and looked down, unable to argue.

"Try harder next time, hmm?"

He patted her on the back, Erzsebet lurching forward from the unexpected and unwanted touch. She hurried herself inside to get the service finished as quickly as possible.

The wooden pews were nearly full by the time she trickled in with the rest of the stragglers into the Church. Erzsebet eased herself a few rows in, seated at the edge. It provided more accessibility to leave when the service was over, but not too far back where she seemed too eager to leave the sanctuary. To her, it was an exhausting dance of ensuring you were seen, but don't be too ostentatious. Don't do anything to stand out from everyone else. Don't do anything to draw attention to yourself, but you _must_ be with everyone else. Be present, but keep your head bowed. Follow the crowd, do not be distracting, and obey, obey, _obey_. These were less the rules of the Church and more of the laws of the community.

In that moment, she bowed her head with the congregation in silent prayer. They moved in unison, all the rituals practiced weekly.

Erzsebet's mind wandered as she thought of Ima at home. How much simpler she must have had it, not going to this Church every week. Her heart clenched to think of the expense, though.

Was it worth it?

Ima had turned a little corner of her house into her own place of worship. There wasn't a Jewish section in the town, nor was there ones for several towns away. Otherwise, she might have a synagogue to attend.

Erzsebet fell to her knees as the congregation was commanded to pray together. Words spilled from her mouth, but she paid them no heed. She could recite the prayers in her sleep, but they brought her no comfort. Her stomach clenched as a small boy beside her murmured his prayers. A memory of her little brother caught a gasp in her throat and her sickened feeling intensified. The words were meaningless and superficial. The crouching on the wooden floor gave her sore and bruised knees, a stiffness that would linger long after the service.

She danced through the rituals, feeling a sense of resentment take root in her stomach. Her mind felt vacant as she no longer wished to hear the sermon, something full of venom and spite under the guise of godly goodliness.

"-and in these winter months, we must consider the safety of our own families. We must take heed of the storms that will be upon us, to ration our good fortune and maintain it before the coming spring. Let no window be open, let no door be unlocked, for thieves and demons will leech on your good charity, or worse." He allowed the words to hang in the air as the room seem to give a collective shudder. "Keep a steady light with you and your family closer. Now is the time when the _others_ can prey on good Christians, so never falter in your love for Christ. His symbol must be with you always. Always! Lest you fall like the wickedness in those who do not Believe."

Erzsebet kept her eyes staring down at the stone floor. Her mouth remained closed against the protests that bubbled in her heart. Her body lurched slightly, the impulse to speak out trying to escape. The injustices ran through her and it physically caused her to ache.

Nevertheless, she remained silent against the non-explicit verbal beating against Ima.

Her shoulders slumped as she continued to gaze at the floor, no longer aware of the people around her.

"-and in Jesus's name, we say, _Amen_."

A chorus of "amen" murmured back to the pulpit from the pews and everyone slowly rose together to exit the Church. Erzsebet moved mechanically with the rest of the bodies, caught in the exiting flow.

Snow was steadily falling now, yet still patchy on the ground. Whiteness began to clump in corners, but the wind blew through, scattering the flakes around. Erzsebet shrugged her shoulders closer to her ears and bowed her head to try and keep the cold out; the scarf provided only little protection when the wind chilled to the bone. Her strides were purposeful and angry, heading straight back to the bakery, not wanting to linger in the Church anymore than she had to.

The cross around her neck felt like it was blistering her skin, absorbing all the freezing air and directing it to her skin. She clutched at it, instinctively, warming the metal with her hands until it rested easy on her once again. She stood by the door of the bakery, kicking off crusted dirt and snow from her shoes. She gazed at the little container on the doorframe, no bigger than her finger. Ima's _mezuzah_ was small and simple, the inscription in Hebrew letters etched in hastily to the carved wood. She may as well have painted her door bright red because of how it marked her as a Jewish home, but in its simplicity, Erzsebet saw its elegance. She lightly touched the holder, her finger brushing the curled paper inside with the words she could not read.

Erzsebet clutched at the handle as the wind pushed against her. She struggled to open the door until it swung open with a mighty burst.

"IIiiimaaa," she called breathlessly, "I'm home!"

"Good, you foolish _bat_! Get inside before you let the heat out. Go! Wash your hands, I need you to knead the dough while I get these in the oven. We have a big order and it isn't going to wait!"

Erzsebet shrugged off her scarf and inhaled the yeasty smells that filled her lungs and belly. "All right, all right," she replied, equally exasperated, plucking her gloves off and tossing them aside.

"-In your room!" Ima snapped her fingers and pointed at Erzsebet's outerwear she haphazardly discarded. She balanced one tray of proofed rolls with tiny crosses on them and was able to command with her free hand.

"All RIGHT!" She snapped back, scooping up her items and huffed away, dropping them on the floor behind the door. Erzsebet grabbed her awaiting apron off of the hook next to her door and simultaneously kicked it closed with a swipe from her booted ankle.

"Where do you pick up these habits!" Ima shook her head, shoving another tray of rolls forcefully into the oven.

Erzsebet rolled her eyes and bit back her tongue, knowing the winter months were always just a bit too hard on the older woman.

* * *

Erik's eyes opened with a start. An unnatural silence engulfed him, the noiselessness suffocating him. He was always surrounded by noise, by music, but the stillness upset him.

Silence met his mother was upset and there would no longer be silence.

His senses flooded back to him as his body began to remove itself from slumber. No, he was not a little boy anymore, fearful of his Maman. He was not in his room in the attic. He sat up in his bed, back propped against the frigid stone walls.

No clocks adorned the room, nor were there any windows. Silence and darkness, often something he craved, seemed repugnant to him now, though he could not remember why. He scratched his head in thought, hoping to etch some memory of why he felt so groggy.

"What happened last night?" he muttered to himself. His mouth slow to move, as though cotton had been there all night. The stale taste of copper lingered, Erik running his tongue over his teeth, searching for any cuts.

In that moment, the wave of gut-clenching disgust drew back to him when he remember the goblet of blood, the flickering fireplace, and the Count, standing at the foot of his bed.

In an instant, Erik was on his feet, the blanket fluttering helplessly down. He reached out with his left hand to grab his mask, always in arm's reach, only to find his violin case missing.

Someone indeed had been in his room.

Clasping his right hand over the hole in his face, his fingers spread wide like a starfish for a to cover the worst of his deformity, he blindly searched for any trace of his belongings.

His outreached hand brushed up against last night's candle, and he held it tightly in his grasp. His fingers edged down to hook inside the arm of the holder and he removed his palm from his face to sweep alongside the bedside table. He found a match and stuck it sharply against the stone wall. It hissed to life and he quickly lit his candle, and then the others around his room for proper illumination.

His violin case was nowhere to be seen.

He did, however, spy his crude strip of cloth he had torn the night before. He tied the loose edges behind his ears securely, but it did little to cover anything, only his lack of nose was shielded away.

Erik gritted his teeth in frustration, looking more like a frightful skeleton. He wanted to leave this horrible place at daybreak, but who could tell the hour? And now that his violin and collection of other masks were missing…

He could not leave them behind. They were the only possessions he cared about.

His fist collided with the hidden door, perhaps more aggressively than he initially intended. It slid open unencumbered and Erik stormed out of his room.

"COUNT, I-" He interrupted himself, discovering he was alone. He had assumed the Count would be there, looming as he did the night previous.

Contrary to the last evening's activities, the castle was devoid of sound.

Erik stood dumbfounded at the vastness of the silence. Surely there had to be someone in the castle. A servant, a cook, someone to wait on the Count.

He stood rooted to the spot, the Count's stern warning from the night prior: _never walk these halls unaccompanied._ Erik rolled his eyes and let out a sputtering, exasperated scoff.

"He lives a solitary life. _I_ am probably the worst monstrosity that has even been inside this castle," Erik said to himself, taking heedless steps outside of his room and into the darkened hallway.

Echoes of mocking laughter reverberated throughout the chambers.


	8. Chapter 8

Erik walked briskly through the hallway, his shoulders coiled with tension. He moved with all the sleekness of a predator, all while knowing he was most certainly not at the top of the food chain.

Figuratively, of course.

There was something about how the Count smiled a little too widely, laughed a little too boisterously which turned sudden severity that put Erik on edge. His steps were muffled against the surrounding grey stone walls by a faded rug that ran the length of the deep passageway. His light footsteps ghosted imprints in the dust. Erik clenched his teeth. Was it better to maintain muffled steps as to not draw any attention and leave a breadcrumb trail, or

should he disregard everything and make a clattering noise of steps? He weighed the two options in his mind as he continued his pace.

He veered slightly off center to walk alongside the carpet, taking more measured steps as to avoid much reverberation.

Torches lined the hallway, but they were all but snuffed out. Only a faint whispering glow remained on a sparse few, making even Erik squint in the darkness. His eyes were two yellow pinpricks in the dimly lit path.

Erik paused in front of the glimmering lights, standing on his toes and reaching up high to unseat one of the torches to illuminate his way.

If things escalated, he could always use it to his advantage as a makeshift weapon. The little nagging voice in the back of his mind could not help but ask, ' _Why_? _Why look for weapons when the Count has been so hospitable?'_

His gut told the voice otherwise.

' _Because something about him cannot be trusted.'_

' _People say the same thing about Erik.'_

Once the torch was removed, the fire instantly flared up back to life. Erik gasped out a startled and angry cry, shielding his eyes away from the light, and dropping the flaming device immediately.

The flame crackled on the stone floor, and through squinting eyes, Erik toed the wooden handle. He deftly kicked it straight up in the air and caught it with his left hand. Slowly, his eyes adjusted to the light, and he placed it in front of him, as though it were a protective shield.

As he ventured further down, he saw that creatures were etched into the stone walls. Ghoulish visages peered back at Erik. Looking around, he dropped his hand to his side to take in his surroundings and the depicted monstrosities. He scoffed at them, one gargoyle to another, as though they could frighten him. The images swirled around, all pointed directly to whomever wandered recklessly down.

Erik nodded his approval of the aesthetic.

Something glinted in the darkness that caught his eye. He quickened his steps only to discover a piece of velvet, encrusted with dust, covering a frame. With a flourish of his wrist, he whipped the material off. A cloud of musky dust was his reward, along with a sputtering cough. He dropped the cloth as he gazed at a dingy mirror. The glass was splotchy with age, and the glass had begun to melt, his reflection garbled with waves of the antiquated glass. Erik instinctively looked away from his own reflection, scowling in disappointment. His shabby cloth mask drooped off of his face, revealing his natural horror.

Begrudgingly, he inched closer, curious that the slightly warped reflection did not look _too_ bad. A wave creased over his nose hole, so at the very least it wasn't perceived as _so_ horrendously gaping. He gingerly touched his upper lip to confirm that yes, he still had open orifices.

His eyes gleamed, reflecting the golden light, and he moved the torch side to side, amused with the delay of the flame. Again he manipulated the flames to and fro, which cast the rest of his body in blackened shadow. He looked like a floating skull, flames erupting from either side of him.

Erik barked out a short laugh in amusement. "Fascinating," he purred to himself, his mind running wild with ideas. A flaming skull, absent of any wires, cackling with demands would certainly prove useful to him, if not entertaining.

"Mirror tricks are a particular favorite of mine," crooned a voice behind him. Erik immediately stared at the mirror in front of him, but only his face stared back. He jumped back, away from Vlad, as he stood meer inches away from Erik. The boy never sensed his presence, could not even feel his breath, yet he invaded his personal space.

"Count!" Erik clapped his hand to his face in astonishment. He was the one to sneak up on people. He was not accustomed to this role reversal.

"Ward!" Vlad retorted with a chuckle, the unfamiliar "w" sounding like a soft "v."

Erik's face stung with the sudden clap of his hand against his face, immediately regretting his hasty action, though he had to keep himself decent. He clenched his mouth shut, trying to minimize his cleft palate and make light of his deformity. His fingers scrambled to tug up the cloth to cover little of his ghoulish visage.

"Were you aware that aged mirrors drip?" The Count continued, moving to the edge of the mirror's frame. He ran a finger down its swirling frame, wiping off a significant amount of dust. It gleamed in the firelight with gilded edging.

"They are not exactly a liquid state," Erik replied dryly, itching to face away from the Count, but simultaneously, unwilling to turn his back toward him.

"Eh…perhaps, not the best turn of phrase, excuse," the Count corrected himself. "Old glass… melts. Its state not permanent, though mankind assumes it to be."

Erik hummed a noise of assent, or rather, acknowledgment, half-paying to the Count's words; his focus pinpointed to the mirror itself.

"It warps," Vlad continued, "shimmers in waves. From liquid it was molded and to liquid it will return."

Erik rolled his eyes exasperatedly. "Only in glass blowing. You need to melt it to manipulate it, but otherwise it's a solid. It is merely super-heated sand. The ancients discovered this, Count."

Vlad chuckled, sending icy shivers running through Erik's blood. "Of course, this younger generation is so much wiser. Come, let us continue together." He clasped Erik's stiff shoulders and brought him closer as he showed him more of the castle.

Erik glanced back at the warped mirror, swallowing the lump in his throat as his mind screamed with one observation he dare not voice aloud: _Vlad's missing reflection_.

* * *

Erzsebet collapses onto her bed, a slight puff of flour escaped from her body. She sighed and stared up at the ceiling, rubbing her cheek with the back of her hand, moving an errant curl out of her face. It fell back into place, much to her own annoyance.

"Erzseeebeeet!" Ima called from the other room, "you better not be in your bed already! Not before you wash up!"

Erzsebet groaned, covering her eyes with her hand and rolled out of bed. "Of course not, Imaaa," she called back, standing up back on her aching feet. She hastily wiped at her bedding, making sure no granules of flour exposed her fatigue and desire to collapse and not take a bath with frigid water.

She reached behind her neck and unclasped her golden chain. She held the cross in her hand and stared at it, deep in thought.

"What is the point?" She whispered to herself. "Why can we not question things? Why must we just accept it? Why do you take good people?" Her thumb brushed against the edges of the cross, catching the light and glowing warmer than it felt.

Ima gave a hasty knock on the door and let herself into Erzsebet's room without waiting for a response. Erzsebet jumped at the intrusion, scrambling to place her necklace back on the bedside table and out of Ima's line of sight.

"Ima!" Erzsebet said, annoyed, "I told you to knock!"

"I _did_ knock," she replied, setting down a large wooden barrel in the middle of the room.

Erzsebet struggled with her frustration. "Yes, but you did not wait for me to answer! I could have-"

"-and what would you have been doing that would be news to me, hmm?" It was as though she wasn't speaking to Erzsebet at all as she moved around to her tasks. A worn cloth, a bar of yellowed soap, and a bottle of oils were placed down alongside the makeshift tub.

Erzsebet jutted her chin out in defiance. "Sometimes…" she grimaced, "a woman wants privacy."

Ima scoffed. "To me, you are still a girl. Until you marry, then you can call yourself a woman." She waved her arms to beckon the girl to her. "Come now, strip and I will wash your hair."

"I can do it myself," she muttered as she began to remove her clothes. Erzsebet untied the scarf binding her hair back and let it fall to the floor. Ima moved in front of her to unbind her bodice.

"I know you can do it yourself," she told her kindly, her fingers still nimble despite the cold, pulling the strings with ease, "but let this old woman still feel needed, hmmm?"

Erzsebet bit her tongue back and nodded, letting Ima help her undress. She raised her arms with a sigh, allowing Ima to help remove her billowy white blouse. Ima quickly folded the shirt, setting it into a pile to be washed as she left the room. Erzsebet stepped out of her heavily embroidered skirts, unfastening her pantaloons and letting them drop in a heap. Erzsebet immediately started shivering, covering her chest with her arms for warmth and less for modesty. Goosebumps pimpled her flesh and her jaw started chattering with the winter chill settling in.

Ima came back into the room, back first, carrying a hefty kettle of piping hot water. She poured the steaming water into the tub, and Erzsebet bounced on the balls of her feet as she waited for the tub to be filled. Ima scurried back into the kitchen and returned with a large cast iron pot filled with water. She dumped its contents into the tub as well, swirling the water around with her bare hand.

"It will not stay hot for long," she told Erzsebet, adding a few sprigs of dried lavender to the water. Erzsebet delicately dropped her big toe into the water.

"Ah! Too hot!" She jumped away from the tub, hopping on one foot, trying to cool off the other.

"Only because your feet are cold, it is fine, and will cool off quickly. Go in, go in!" She shooed her hands toward the tub.

Erzsebet fumbled into the tub and hastily sat down in its confines, causing some water to splash on the floor. Her knees were pressed to her chest, but as the warmth seeped into her bones and chased the chill away, she relaxed as best as she could. Ima ladled a cup of water from the tub over her head, letting the drops run lazily down her yellow hair.

"Ahh…" Erzsebet sighed, her shoulders slumping in relief. The trickling warmth tingled her scalp and eased her soul with comfort as Ima's hands worked quickly, but thoroughly. Her fingers raked through the girl's hair, poised claws that smoothed down the strands. Ima vigorously scrubbed; Erzsebet's head pulled to and fro. Erzsebet grunted at the intense cleaning, picking idly at a sprig of lavender that brushed up against her squished legs. She rolled the hard bud in her fingers and squashed it. She brought the crumbled flower to her nose and inhaled its delicate perfume with a sigh. Ima tugged on her hair, trying to untangle a particularly angry knot.

Erzsebet grabbed the soap and lathered up the bar thoroughly as she cleaned the rest of her body. She splashed at her legs, rinsing the suds away. She grunted as her head was pulled in a detangling effort, but she kept her focus on cleaning the rest of herself.

"Tilt your head back," Ima commanded and Erzsebet obliged, closing her eyes. Ima poured warm water over her scalp and through her hair one last time. Erzsebet draped her arms lazily over the sides of the tub. Ima nimbly braided her wet hair, ringing out the ends with a tug and a twist. Water trickled from the tips back into the tub.

For one brief moment, Erzsebet pretended she was in the lap of luxury, the Queen of Sheba, as servants bathed and catered to her every possible whim. The brief daydream was interrupted as Ima patted her arm, the action stinging Erzsebet's wet skin.

"Bedtime," Ima directed. Erzsebet's mouth set in a firm line. Ima rolled her eyes, "Oh apologies your majesty! Too old to call it bedtime, now? Well, it is well beyond mine."

Ima stood poised with a towel spread in her hands, ready to wrap Erzsebet up in it. Reluctant to leave the sanctuary of the warm bath, Erzsebet made no motion to leave. However, with every passing minute the water grew noticeably cooler. Ima cleared her throat, growing impatient with Erzsebet. She finally hoisted herself up, water sloshing off of her pink body and moved into the waiting arms of Ima. The older woman wrapped Erzsebet up within the towel and began rubbing her dry like a child. Erzsebet stood silently, torn between independent and being doted upon. Ima's eyes sparkled with a sadness that had been hidden all day, and she did not want to deny her.

"You know," Ima said softly, continuing her vigorous rubbing, her eyes catching Erzsebet's and looking at her fondly, "I used to do this for-" her words choked, and Erzsebet nodded, placing her warm hand on Ima's.

"I know, Ima. I know." She held onto her hand and gave it a slight squeeze. "I can finish by myself," she whispered.

Ima, unable to look at her anyway, merely nodded, sharply sniffing away her tears and shuffling off to her room.

Erzsebet hugged the towel tighter as the cold crept in. Hurriedly, she tousled the towel through her hair, the ringlets forming wildly back into place. She threw on her chemise which clung to the parts of her legs, still slightly damp, along with some thick knitted stockings. She tugged on her nightgown, threading the front silently. As she tied it shut, she heard the quiet gasps of Ima crying. She licked her thumb and forefinger, extinguishing her own candles as she crawled into bed. Erzsebet pulled her knees to her chest, the ache of despair freezing her bones as she heard Ima weep out words that brought her comfort without meaning.

" _Yitgadal v'yitkadash sh'mei raba b'alma di v'ra chirutei, v'yamlich malchutei, b'chayeichon uv'yomeichon uv'chayei d'chol beit Yisrael,vbaagala uviz'man kariv, v'im'ru:_ _Amen."_

Erzsebet curled up, facing the door, listening to Ima. She reached out to her necklace on the table, lightly brushing her fingertips against the cross. She rolled over on her side, turned to the wall, shutting her eyes tightly against the world. As Ima continued her mourner's kaddish, Erzsebet's lips whispered a silent, "Amen."


End file.
